“That is Madame la Comtesse Emma de Valdieri; she is a fascinating creature, in very truth; she has something of the sylph about her, something of a daughter of the air. She is perfectly proportioned: small feet, small hands, small mouth, small ears; only her eyes are large. She is the perfect type of tiny women. But she is exceedingly nervous and flighty, and, above all, capricious; to-day she will greet you with a tender glance, to-morrow she will act as if she did not know you; adulation has spoiled her. Comtesse Emma is French, but her husband is a Corsican. He is that stout gentleman with whiskers, who is singing at the piano. He has a superb bass voice, so that he is always anxious to sing; and, although he’s a Corsican, he seems to be very little disturbed by the homage paid to his wife.”
Monsieur Trichet, who was at some distance from Monfréville, succeeded none the less in overhearing what he said to Chérubin; and he approached the two friends, saying in a sarcastic tone:
“True, true. Valdieri, the handsome singer, is not at all jealous; but it isn’t safe to trust him! With these Corsicans, there is always the vendetta to guard against. Is your health good, Monsieur de Monfréville?”
“Very good, monsieur, I thank you.”
“It is some time since you have shown yourself in society.”
“I have been obliged to pay a long visit to my estate near Fontainebleau.”
“Oh, yes!—So you are introducing monsieur in society? He could not find a better guide.”
Chérubin bowed and attempted to say a few words in reply; but after a vain effort, he deemed it more prudent to hold his peace. Monsieur Trichet was about to continue the conversation, when he saw, at the other end of the room, three gentlemen talking with great earnestness; he instantly ran toward them, crying:
“That isn’t so—you’re wrong! I know the story better than you do, and I’ll tell it to you.”