“Caracal!” said the duke, laughing, “we no longer live in the times when kings espoused shepherdesses.”
“But dukes, monseigneur, still pay their court to danseuses,” Caracal went on. “It’s a tendency of the aristocracy.”
“Why?” asked the duke.
“Because the common run of men, when they court a woman, make account of what others think of her; whereas a grand seigneur doesn’t care for the opinion of the public and chooses what pleases him.”
“That’s true!” said the duke.
“I can cite you a dozen examples,” Caracal continued. “There’s Clotilde Loisset, the circus-rider, who is an Hungarian princess to-day; Chelli, the danseuse, married to a Russian count who is Minister of State; Lord Billy, betrothed to an equilibrist; the Countess of Landsfeldt, Baroness Rosenthal—you know well who they were. And you see what they are now, thanks to the caprice of some Highness! Grandees, monseigneur, are like those kings who acknowledge no rank but that which they themselves create.”
“Well said, Caracal!”
The duke, when his first surprise had passed, found it amusing to talk confidentially in such a moral pig-pen. It was so amusing, even, that he forgot to ask himself what possible interest Caracal could have to see him in love with Helia.
“Will you come now, Caracal? Phil must be waiting for us.”
“Helia, too!” said Caracal.