Dupréval's tale amused the company immensely. Monsieur Dumouton, who was better able, perhaps, than any of the rest of us, to understand our friend's plight, exclaimed:
"Oh! that's true! it's very dangerous to take any chances in a lady's company, if you haven't any money in your pocket! It's a thing I always avoid."
It was young Balloquet's turn. The bulky, fair-haired man opened his mouth as if he were going to sing an operatic aria, and began:
"Dupréval has just told us of an adventure which was not a bonne fortune, messieurs, for it didn't end happily for him; I propose to tell you of one that can fairly be called a genuine A-Number-One bonne fortune. It happened at a fête champêtre given by a friend of mine at his charming country place in the outskirts of Sceaux."
"Don't name the place," Monsieur Faisandé interrupted; "there's no need of it, and it might betray the originals of your story."
"Mon Dieu! Monsieur Faisandé, you seem to be terribly afraid of disclosures. Is it because you fear your excellent wife may be involved?"
The Treasury clerk turned as red as a poppy.
"I don't know why you indulge in jests of that sort, Monsieur Balloquet," he cried; "it's very bad taste, monsieur!"
"Then let me speak, monsieur, and don't keep putting your oar into our conversation; your mock-modest air doesn't deceive anybody. People who make such a show of decorum, and who are so strict in their language, are often greater libertines and rakes than those whose language they censure."
Monsieur Faisandé's cheeks changed from the hue of a poppy to that of a turnip; but he made no reply, and looked down at his plate, which led us to think that Balloquet had hit the mark. The latter resumed his story: