I nodded, and he continued:
“Last night Madame Riano had one of her great routs. I went to it with my brother—our first visit to her since we have been in Paris. She received us well, and so did that angel, Francezka, who said she remembered us from her childhood. Ah, Babache, she was so kind to me. It seems she knew all about our little fracas—she 70 had got the whole story out of old Peter—and was full of the sweetest regrets. She even begged my pardon—the darling!—for having been so rude to me the night of our first encounter. I think she is now awake to the imprudence of her conduct, and most anxious for it not to be known, instead of being defiant, as she was at the time. She asked me to give you her thanks and her remembrance.”
“It is enough,” said I; “if I can but always merit her thanks and her remembrance I shall be satisfied. It is for men placed like you to aspire for more.”
“Babache,” he cried, “you are an honest fellow, and I am glad you made that hole in me, if it won me your friendship.”
“I did not wish to make a hole in you,” I replied. “What has your brother to say to your going with us?”
“He tried to dissuade me from going. I tried to persuade him into going. Regnard has more of that beggarly virtue of prudence than I. But, Babache, here is the devil to pay; my brother fell desperately in love with Mademoiselle Capello at first sight.”
“That is nothing,” said I, unfeelingly. “You are so much alike it can matter but little to her which one she may love.”
“Out, rascal! But—but—mademoiselle was much kinder to me than to Regnard. Indeed, she was not kind at all to him.”
“Oh, poor brother! How that must have pained you!”
“No! no! My brother and I are nearer to each other than most brothers, but when a young lady is concerned we are as man to man. So I was rather pleased not to have my brother for a rival.”