"My fair friend, it's of no use for you to persist in not turning, and to force your companion to follow suit, which seems to be very distasteful to her; it doesn't prevent my recognizing you. I watched you just now from below; your black eyes shone like carbuncles; those eyes betray you, my love; when you don't wish to be recognized, assume the costume of Fortune, and wear a bandage over them."
"I don't know what you want with me," said Mademoiselle Héloïse's companion, carefully disguising her voice; "my eyes shine, you say? so much the better; I am delighted. I have no reason to hide them. If I don't turn round, you may be sure that it's not on account of you, whom I don't know, and whom I have no desire to know!"
"Ah! my dear Thélénie! If I hadn't recognized you already, your last words would have left me in no doubt as to your identity! A person may disguise her face and figure, or change her voice,—that's all very well; but she must remember also to change her mental habit and her mode of speech. You have always had a considerable leaning toward impertinence; and you yielded to it again just now when you said that you had no desire to know me. Tell me, am I not right? Take my word for it, and profit by this advice—if you want to puzzle anybody and to avoid being identified, be good-natured, indulgent, and don't speak unkindly of anyone; then I promise you that people won't recognize you."
The tall Thélénie with difficulty repressed an angry exclamation; however, she forced herself to laugh as she replied:
"Ha! ha! ha! that is all very pretty! Well, why aren't you disguised as a magician, since you pretend to be able to tell everyone so exactly what sort of person she is?"
"Oh! I don't disguise myself any more; my time for that has passed."
"True; you are too old for that."
"There are many older than I who continue to disguise themselves. It is not age that prevents a man from making a fool of himself, it's the degree of pleasure he finds in doing it. See, look at that tall Polichinelle just passing you, with two Swiss women on his arms; that is old Simoulin, the lorettes' banker. He is more than fifty years old, but that doesn't prevent him from disguising himself still; he must have intrigues, love-affairs, mistresses; he imagines that he still makes conquests—an old idiot who doesn't understand yet that his money is the only thing that attracts the women. He has done many foolish things for them; he has already consumed three-fourths of his fortune, and the rest will probably go the same way. Then all these beauties, for whom he will have ruined himself, will turn their backs on him and order their maids to shut the door in his face if he has the audacity to call on his former mistresses.—Isn't that true? But I am telling you nothing new. You know it all better than I do, for you have been intimately acquainted with that beggarly Polichinelle.—And that tall young man yonder, dressed to represent Gille.[B] His costume is well chosen, at all events. Poor fellow! what a haggard face, what hollow cheeks, what a dull, brutish expression! Ah! he was once a good-looking fellow. He's a Hungarian; why in the deuce did he leave his country with such a well-filled wallet? He wanted to know Paris, to enjoy himself here! I don't know if he has enjoyed himself very much—I trust so. But to run through a hundred and fifty thousand francs in six months—that is rather a rapid pace; nothing less than a princely fortune will stand that sort of thing. Now this young Hungarian is obliged to borrow until his worthy father chooses to send him some money. But the father keeps his pockets buttoned; he thinks that his son has been rather too magnificent. You know this young foreigner also, my dear—know him very well, in fact. But it isn't he whom you are looking for in this throng; it's little Edmond Didier—your latest passion! I say your latest—I think so, but I wouldn't swear to it. You have had so many! Have you made a memorandum of them all, with a view to writing your memoirs some day? If you have not, you are making a mistake, for I assure you they would have a good sale. I will engage a copy in advance."
The gray domino made no reply, but one could see from her nervous movements that she could hardly restrain her wrath. The black domino, who was tired of keeping silent, thought that she was doing an excellent thing in suddenly observing to the gentleman who was talking to her friend:
"Mon Dieu! my dear man, you must see that you bore us to death. For heaven's sake, leave us in peace! We didn't come to the Opéra to listen to your ragots—silly backbiting."