"There is one thing that puzzles me, Monsieur Xavier. How does it happen that one never sees you at Madame's dinners?"
"You certainly don't expect me, my dear ... oh! no, you know, Madame's dinners tire me too much."
"And how is it," I insisted, "that your room is the only one in the house in which there is not a picture of the pope?"
This observation flattered him. He answered:
"Why, my little baby, I am an Anarchist, I am. Religion, the Jesuits, the priests,—oh! no, I have enough of them. I have supped on them. A society made up of people like papa and mamma? Oh! you know ... none of that in mine, thank you!"
Now I felt at ease with M. Xavier, in whom I found, together with the same vices, the drawling accent of the Paris toughs. It seemed to me that I had known him for years and years. In his turn he asked me:
"Tell me, are you intimate with papa?"
"Your father!" I cried, pretending to be scandalized. "Oh! Monsieur Xavier! Such a holy man!"
His laugh redoubled, and rang out loudly:
"Papa! Oh! papa! Why, he is intimate with all the servants here. Then you are not yet intimate with papa? You astonish me."