“Oh!” said Madame Mollot, in order to stop this passage at arms between the old maid and Vinet, who always went to far, “when a woman has had experience of life she knows that a husband of fifty or one of twenty-five is absolutely the same thing if she merely respects him. The important things in marriage are the benefits to be derived from it. If Mademoiselle Beauvisage wants to go to Paris and shine there—and in her place I should certainly feel so—she ought not to take a husband in Arcis. If I had the fortune she will have, I should give my hand to a count, to a man who would put me in a high social position, and I shouldn’t ask to see the certificate of his birth.”
“It would satisfy you to see his toilet,” whispered Vinet in her ear.
“But the king makes counts,” said Madame Marion, who had now joined the group and was surveying the bevy of young ladies.
“Ah! madame,” remarked Vinet, “but some young girls prefer their counts already made.”
“Well, Monsieur Antonin,” said Cecile, laughing at Vinet’s sarcasm. “Your ten minutes have expired, and you haven’t told us whether the Unknown is a count or not.”
“I shall keep my promise,” replied the sub-prefect, perceiving at that moment the head of his valet in the doorway; and again he left his place beside Cecile.
“You are talking of the stranger,” said Madame Marion. “Is anything really known about him?”
“No, madame,” replied Achille Pigoult; “but he is, without knowing it, like the clown of a circus, the centre of the eyes of the two thousand inhabitants of this town. I know one thing about him,” added the little notary.
“Oh, tell us, Monsieur Achille!” cried Ernestine, eagerly.
“His tiger’s name is Paradise!”