"Ah! if you had seen her nine years ago! that was a different matter!"
"Great God! what was she then?—For my part, I flattered myself too soon on having made a conquest of the lady; she was very stern with me when I had the good fortune to see her at her home; she even forbade me to speak of my love. I will confess to you, monsieur, that that drove me to despair."
"Ha! ha! poor Monsieur Chamoureau!"
"Not speak to her of love! Of what shall I speak to her, pray, that she may listen with pleasure?"
"Pardieu! speak of Edmond Didier, who is her lover! whom she loves to madness—for the moment. That is why she wanted to converse with you at the Opéra ball,—Ha! ha! ha! Do you see now?"
Chamoureau turned pale; he halted in the middle of the gutter, crying:
"Oh! monsieur, what are you saying? What! Edmond Didier?"
"I am telling you the truth; I am opening your eyes; I am doing you a service."
"It's a service which causes me a great deal of pain, then."
"What difference does it make to you whether she loves that young man or another, so long as she doesn't love you?"