“There, in the private box to the right,—the lady with curls à l’anglaise, wearing a low-necked dress.”
“I do not know her.”
“Indeed!”
“Pardon me if I am indiscreet,” said Eusebe; “but——”
“No indiscretion,” replied his neighbor. “All Paris knows her. Her mother was a dealer in butter at the Halle. She was very handsome, and when she married M. de Cornacé, who was a ruined nobleman, she brought him a dowry of one hundred and fifty thousand francs. To-day they have three millions, thanks to an intimacy that exists between Mdme. de Cornacé and Froment, the banker. You see she is a woman of the times.”
“How so?”
“How? Why, that is not difficult to comprehend.”
“I do not understand you, sir.”
“When one does not understand French, one ought not to enter into conversation,” replied the neighbor, angrily, turning his back to Eusebe.