“Yes, I thought of that at first; and last week, happening to meet Malvina—you know, that lively little ballet girl?”
“Yes.”
“Well, I spoke to her. At first she called me Monsieur Jack Frost; but when I told her that I wasn’t as cold as she thought, she said: ‘To make me believe that, you must prove it.’ And she invited me again to breakfast with her—at six o’clock in the morning—and we appointed a day.”
“Good! that is excellent!”
“Oh, yes! but the day came long ago, and I didn’t go.”
“Why not?”
“Because I reflected that I had no more love for Malvina than for the others, and that I should no doubt make as big a fool of myself with her as I had done at my previous tête-à-têtes.”
“You were altogether wrong! your reasoning is ridiculous! The idea of reflecting about an amourette, a passing fancy! But stay—didn’t you tell me once of a grisette, a girl who worked in a linen-draper’s shop near by, and who used to ogle you? she even told you her name, I believe.”
“Yes, my friend, that was little Célanire, with the fair hair and the nose à la Roxelane.”
“Well, there’s your chance; ask Mademoiselle Célanire for a rendezvous. Judging from what you have told me, she won’t refuse you.”