"Why, madame," he stammered, looking down at his trousers, "I take you for a lady of the best society—ex—exceedingly well-bred—er—with much wit—in short—er—created to attract the homage of all mankind."
"You don't say all you think; you met me at the Opéra ball, and you said to yourself: 'A woman who comes to the masquerade is sure to be an easy victim. She began to talk to me, consequently she won't make a long resistance.'"
"Oh! madame, I beg your pardon——"
"Monsieur Chamoureau, it is my duty to inform you that you are entirely mistaken in your conjectures. I will not be your mistress, monsieur. In fact, I do not propose to be anyone's mistress. Oh! I won't pretend that I am of the most rigid virtue. I have had a very stormy youth, I don't deny it; but now I am growing old, I must be prudent——"
"You, growing old, madame! what a mockery!"
"I am past thirty, monsieur; at that age one must think of the future; one must think about obtaining a name, a position in society. Do you understand, monsieur?"
"I think that I understand you, charming creature; but if you will deign to accept my name, my hand, my office, I will place them all at your feet by becoming your husband."
"Your offer touches me, monsieur, but between ourselves, marriage is a business matter, and a matter of the greatest importance! What is your fortune, monsieur? How much is this office worth that you lay at my feet?"
Chamoureau drew himself up, did a little mental reckoning, then replied:
"With what I already have and my office, I do not exaggerate when I place my income at four to four thousand five hundred francs."