Monsieur de Grandvilain, still proud and magnificent, fluttered about that flower of twenty-four years.
Mademoiselle Aménaïde found monsieur le marquis very agreeable; she was flattered to be noticed by him; and she even allowed him to see that her heart was not indifferent to his homage. But when she discovered that Monsieur de Grandvilain had no idea of making her a marchioness, she proudly repulsed him, saying:
“For what do you take me, monsieur?”
The marquis, offended by her resistance, turned on his heel, humming a tune from Blaise et Babet, an opera-comique, then in great vogue; the operas of those days abounded in tunes which were easily remembered, and were sung and whistled on the streets. Other times, other music!
Monsieur de Grandvilain carried elsewhere his glances, his passions, his homage and his heart. Mademoiselle Aménaïde Dufoureau concealed in the depths of her heart her regrets, her sighs, and her ardor.
Think how fortunate men are! A woman resists them, they simply apply elsewhere, and they always end by finding a place for their love, which they offer to every pretty face they see. They are like those people who have their pockets full of money and say to themselves: “I will buy whatever I please, I will have the best and finest things I can find, for I pay cash!” On the other hand, virtuous women are obliged to ask for credit; for they are willing to promise their love, but they do not propose to give it at once.
Six years passed, during which monsieur le marquis, passing constantly from conquest to conquest, spending his time in a life of pleasure, did not again see poor Aménaïde Dufoureau, who led a very tranquil, very modest life, and did not frequent the society in which Monsieur de Grandvilain moved.
At the end of that time, an outdoor fête in the suburbs of Paris brought about a meeting between those two people who had ceased to seek each other. The marquis still found Aménaïde attractive, and Aménaïde could not restrain a sigh or two, which indicated that the past had not been entirely forgotten.
Once more the marquis played the amiable seducer; he thought that the flower of thirty years would be plucked more easily than that of twenty-four; but he was mistaken; he encountered the same virtue, the same resistance, as before, and yet she did not conceal from him that she loved him. She desired to be a marchioness, however, and she did not propose to give herself to anybody but her husband.
Once more our seducer turned on his heel. He travelled; he was away from France six years. When he returned, he was much less active, much less volatile; his bearing was still distinguished, but his step was slow and heavy. However, although he was then sixty-one years old, the marquis believed himself still to be very fascinating; there are people who refuse to grow old; they are perfectly right, but in that case it is time which is in the wrong.