“What sum shall we decide upon as the price of admission?” asked Madame de Lisieux.
“Twenty francs,” said Desvanneaux. “We have a thousand tickets printed already, and, if the ladies present wish to solicit subscriptions, each has before her the wherewithal to inscribe appropriate notes of appeal.”
“To be drawn upon at sight,” said the Comtesse de Lisieux, taking a pen. “A tax on vanity, I should call it.”
She wrote rapidly, and then read aloud:
“MY DEAR BARON:
“Your proverbial generosity justifies my new appeal. You will
accept, I am sure, the ten tickets which I enclose, when you know
that your confreres, the Messieurs Axenstein, have taken double that
number.”
“And here,” said the Vicomtesse de Nointel, “is a tax on gallantry.” And she read aloud:
“MY DEAR PRINCE:
“You have done me the honor to write to me that you love me. I
suppose I ought to show your note to my husband, who is an expert
swordsman; but I prefer to return to you your autograph letter for
the price of these fifteen tickets. Go—and sin again, should your
heart prompt you!”
“But that is a species of blackmail, Madame!” cried Madame Desvanneaux.
“The end justifies the means,” replied the Vicomtesse gayly. “Besides, I am accountable only to the Duc de Montgeron. What is his opinion?”
“I call it a very clever stroke,” said the Duke.