“What’s that! can you let a mistress go?” inquired Chérubin with a surprised expression.
“I say, marquis, where have you come from? One would think, to hear you, that you are a novice in love; whereas monsieur le comte assures us that you are his pupil. That would not do him credit.”
Daréna emptied his glass and cried:
“Do you mean to say that you believe our young Adonis? Don’t you see that he’s making sport of you—a man who keeps a damsel three days at most? He takes us all in with his little innocent expression! And if he deceives us men, tell me whether the women are not likely to fall into his toils?”
“Monsieur Chérubin is favored in every respect,” said Oscar.
“Monsieur is not the only one!” rejoined tall Mousseraud, with a conceited air; “I only say this, because it’s a fact, but, on my word of honor, I have never met a woman who could resist me.”
“Oh! that’s not surprising with you!” retorted Oscar, in a mocking tone; “you have such an ardent nature—anyone can see that from the color of your hair.”
“What do you mean by that?” demanded the tall young man, while his cheeks became as red as his locks. “Do you dare to say that I have red hair?”
“It seems to me that there is no need for me to say so.”
“Come, come, messieurs; are we going to quarrel?” said Daréna. “We met here to breakfast, to laugh and talk nonsense; and we lose our temper, and sulk! That is most execrable form—and all about a matter of hair! Mon Dieu! I wish that mine were red; I should be delighted! It is much less common in France than dark or fair hair. And it proves too that the hair is not dyed.—Fill my glass, Oscar, and you, de Mousseraud, serve what is on that dish.”