"I have seen Satiné, my sweetheart, again. She has gone into another invention now—still in the glove line, however. She cleanses gloves; she has invented, or someone has given her, a secret for cleansing them; and as gloves get soiled very quickly and are rather expensive, there's a lot of money to be made in cleansing."
"True; but I thought the process was already known."
"Yes, it is possible to have gloves cleansed; that's so; but when they had been through the process they smelt of the cleansing liquid—turpentine, or something else. You went into a salon and swaggered about, playing the dandy, and people said as soon as you came near: 'Ah! here's a man whose gloves have been cleansed!'—That was annoying, you must admit. It took fifty per cent off your costume. Some people concluded at once that your coat had been turned and your trousers dyed, that your waistcoat was second-hand, etcetera, etcetera. Conjectures went a long way, sometimes."
"And your charmer has found a way of avoiding that?"
"Yes—that is to say, not altogether; gloves cleansed by her process have an extremely pleasant odor; they smell of rose; oh! you can smell them a mile away; it's amazing! You go into a salon, and people think that the Grand Turk and his whole harem have arrived; they can't smell anything but you."
"But that may have the same drawbacks as the other process, my dear fellow. People will wonder why you smell so strongly of rose."
"Yes; but when I arrive, I shall begin by saying: 'I adore the odor of rose! I have lately bought some essence of rose, so strong that all my clothes are perfumed with it'—In that way, I avert suspicion from my gloves. However, it seems that the new process is a success. My sentimental Satiné is in funds; the odor of rose is popular. For my part, I have had a few patients—among others, a rich old gentleman with whom I am very well satisfied; he has had an inflammation of the lungs for six weeks, and it doesn't seem inclined to subside. I keep it up by means of fumigations. I have paid three creditors already with that inflammation. To-day, as I happened to be in your neighborhood, I said to myself: 'I may as well call on Rochebrune and give him my address;' for I have an address for the moment. Cité Vindé, No. 4, ter or bis. But I'm very sorry that I put that young woman to flight. Have I such a very terrifying aspect? I haven't any moustache."
"I repeat, Balloquet, don't think any more of that incident. You could not have foreseen what happened.—But tell me about that girl who came to consult you while I was in your room; you remember, don't you? the girl who had been so maltreated by a miserable blackguard!"
Balloquet passed his hand across his brow and his face became almost serious—a rare occurrence.
"Yes, I remember; you mean Annette?"