"In order to see you, one has to meet you here," said Sulpice. "Why have you not called on me? Is it because I am no longer a minister?"
"That would be a reason for seeing me more frequently," said Lissac. "But it is not that. What do you want me to tell you? You know my sentiments. I don't care to become a bore, as it is called, or a ceaseless prater of morality, which is the same thing. Besides, morality to me is something like the Montyon prize to a harlot! Then, too, I am keeping in my corner and I shall stick to it hereafter closer than ever. I have put the brake on. I am getting old, and I shall bury myself in some suburb and look after my rheumatism."
In Lissac's tone there was an unexpected melancholy.
"Then you will not call on me again?"
"What is the use of worrying you?—Reflect for yourself, my good man! You don't need me to emphasize your blunders. By the way, you know, our mad mistress?—She is in the theatre."
"I have seen her!" said Vaudrey, turning very pale.
"She is not yet a duchess, but that will be patched up in four days. If one were only a rascal, how one could punish the hussy! But what is the use? And this devilish Rosas, who is mad enough over her to tie himself to her and to overlook everything he ought to know, would be capable of marrying her all the same! Much good may it do him!"
"But, tell me," continued Lissac, whose cutting tone suddenly became serious, "have you read the paper?"
"No! What is there in it?"
They were then in the corridor of the Opéra, and heard the prelude to the curtain-raising. Guy took the Soir from his pocket and handed it to Vaudrey: