"Alas! yes, madame; I have lost my Eléonore, my sweet better half! my faithful companion!"
Chamoureau was on the point of blowing his nose, but he checked himself, reflecting that it would be unwise to appear grief-stricken in that lady's company; and, laying aside his melancholy, he assumed a sprightly air.
"Does not madame dance?"
"Oh, no! monsieur, never at a masquerade. But what have you done with your two friends?"
"They are dancing, madame; they must be on the floor."
"Between ourselves, Monsieur Chamoureau, it isn't good form to dance here, unless one is disguised as you are; then anything is allowable; but those gentlemen are not."
"True; but they are not exactly dancing; the galop is the only thing they dance—the infernal galop."
"Oh, yes! I remember: I saw Monsieur Edmond pass just now with a woman dressed as a débardeur—his mistress, I suppose?"
"Yes, that's one of his mistresses; it must be little Amélia; he was looking for her."
"Who is this Amélia?"