“But the footman said Chérubin too; that’s a very pretty name.”
“They can’t belong to the same man.”
“Probably there’s a father and a son.”
While the guests indulged in these reflections, Madame Célival said to those who were nearest her, but speaking loud enough to be overheard by everybody:
“Monsieur de Monfréville did ask my permission to introduce a young man who has never been out at all; and I granted it the more willingly because this young man, who is the last of a noble family, deserves, so it is said, all the interest that Monsieur de Monfréville takes in him.”
“Ah! very well done!” murmured the gray-haired gentleman; “a little announcement preceding the introduction.”
At that moment Chérubin entered the salon with Monfréville. Despite all that his mentor had said to him, he was far from self-possessed, and the deep flush that covered his cheeks sufficiently betrayed his embarrassment. But his eyes were so lovely and soft, his features so refined, his face so interesting, that a flattering murmur greeted his entrance into the salon, and everyone felt prepossessed in his favor at once. The young men who were standing stiffly erect to display their fine points were the only ones who did not seem to share the general feeling.
“He has a very awkward manner,” said one.
“He carries himself badly,” said another.
“He looks like a woman in man’s clothes,” murmured a young dandy, bristling with beard, moustache and side-whiskers.