“You have the arm of Goliath, M. le Marquis,” remarked another, a little man, who smiled above great ruffles of lace.
“I thank you, monsieur,” Péron replied, with a smile; “I am content to be Goliath as long as you do not prove to be a David.”
“Your wit is keen and your arm is long, M. de Nançay!” cried another admirer, while two or three thrust themselves forward with invitations.
“Monsieur will dine with me to-morrow?”
“Sup with me, M. le marquis?”
“Nay, with me, for I sent a note this morning, M. de Nançay.”
“Mon Dieu!” Péron ejaculated, with impatience. “Gentlemen, you overwhelm me. But yesterday I was a poor musketeer, dining where I could best afford it. Give me a fortnight, messieurs, to get the stomach of a grandee!”
He pressed through the crowd to the door, putting aside a dozen flatterers upon the way, and in the street he was stopped again by a little man who was dressed in the excess of fashion and who bowed with profound respect.
“M. le marquis,” he said humbly but with a confidential manner, “I am Louis le Gros, the famous tailor of the Marais. I serve the king and Monsieur and M. le Grand. I pray you let me set you out as becomes your station, sir; and, pardon me—but the fit of your coat is very bad—very bad indeed!”
For the first time Péron laughed.