"Are you acquainted with my intimate friend, the barber Touquet?"
"What does that matter to you," asked the young Italian, glancing scornfully at Chaudoreille.
"It's nothing to me, certainly—but, since you named him—he's a very worthy fellow, certainly, and I am honored in being his friend."
"That reflects credit on you," said Julia, smiling ironically.
"Yes, most assuredly," resumed Chaudoreille, who had interpreted Julia's smile to his own advantage, "we have seen fire together. He is brave, I'll give him justice for that; he always conducts himself honorably."
"Always? And has he sometimes spoken to you of his parents?—of his father?"
"My faith, no; I don't believe he was born from the higher classes. In that matter I am infinitely before him; the Chaudoreilles are of very pure blood and have a stock which goes back to Noah. Under Charles the Bald one of my ancestors had himself shaved—"
"What does it matter what your ancestors did? I was talking about the barber's family."
"That's all right; but my friend Touquet has spoken very little to me about them. I believe he is from Lorraine and he has told me that he left his country very early and came very young to Paris, for it is only there that talent has a chance of success; also Touquet has made money, and me, thank God, I am—"
Here Chaudoreille's eyes wandered over his doublet, which was stained in many places, and he covered it with his mantle, resuming,—