“Has she forgotten her old friend, her devoted Schtapelmerg?”
“Ah! monsieur!—a friend—in life and death! Twenty times I have fought for that charming woman!”
“You have fought for her?”
“I did little else at one time, monsieur; if anyone looked at her too closely, if anyone trod on her foot or tore her dress—instantly my sword was unsheathed. Ah! I am not given to jesting! I am very sensitive on the point of honor.—One! two! parry that thrust! pif! spitted!”
“Sapristi!” muttered Chamoureau, while Croque went through the motions of spitting a linden. “Here’s a man that I’ll never quarrel with! But he seems to be a friend to be relied on.”
“Lately, monsieur, after travelling in Bavaria, my native land, and visiting some of my numerous domains——”
As he said this, Croque pushed back under his coat sleeve a bit of ragged shirt which persisted in showing itself.
“I was saying that, on returning from one of my principalities, my first thought, on reaching Paris, was to call upon my noble and respected friend, Madame Sainte-Suzanne. There I learned that that most gracious woman had recently espoused a young, noble and fashionable gentleman, blessed with an immense fortune and with amiable qualities in proportion; I was told your name—Monsieur de Belleville!”
Chamoureau, who had appeared at first somewhat surprised to hear this individual in threadbare coat and rusty tile speak of his domains, forgot that seedy costume as soon as the words gentleman, fashionable, and amiable fell upon his ear. He was radiant, his face fairly beamed, and he extended his hand to the pretended baron, exclaiming: