“Monsieur de Schtapel—what’s your name——”
“Merg.”
“Yes, that’s it; I was afraid of pronouncing it wrong. My dear baron, as you are my wife’s friend, I venture to hope that you will consent to be mine also from this moment. It will be an honor and—the keenest satisfaction to me to offer you my friendship. Shake hands!”
“Ah! tarteiff! you are what I call a man! I judged you at the first glance; I said to myself: ‘Ten thousand cabbages! there’s a man who is worthy to be hitched up with Madame Sainte-Suzanne; they were born for each other!’—And you offer me your friendship! Sapreman! here’s my hand. Bah! these damned musketeer sleeves are intolerable; they get torn and soiled in an hour; no matter—here’s my hand. Now, if you have an enemy, if anyone has the misfortune to look askance at you—why, it no longer concerns you—it’s my affair—mine!”
“Oh! really, baron, I should not want you to go so far as that.”
“Nonsense! I tell you that it no longer concerns you; that’s the way I deal with my real friends! But I beg your pardon—you must realize my impatience; I would be glad to present my respects to Madame de Belleville.”
“That is quite natural; we will go to her. She has just come in from her ride, which she takes every morning. Do you know how well she rides?”
“Do I know? why, it was I who held her stirrup at the riding-school of—at the circus, in fact!”
“I shall have the pleasure of taking you to my wife.”
“Bless my soul! don’t put yourself out. You were going somewhere, and you mustn’t change your plans on my account. Madame is at the château; that’s enough for me; I will go alone.”