“Ha! ha! very pretty! very pretty!” cried Daréna, affecting to laugh heartily in order to lessen the effect produced by the Swiss girl’s expression; “you must excuse madame; she isn’t a Parisian and she doesn’t know our language very well; she doesn’t understand the comparative value of words.”
“Tibullus, Petronius and Ovid sometimes employed the equivalent,” said Monsieur Gérondif, perpetrating an immense smile, so that the four dancers might see all his teeth.
“I ain’t a Parisian!” cried Mademoiselle Malvina; “well, upon my word! I was born on Rue Mouffetard—just where my mother sells Brie cheese.”
Daréna trod on her foot and whispered to her:
“If you don’t hold your tongue, Malvina, I’ll put you in the cab, you shan’t have any milk, and you shan’t come to the dinner.”
The Swiss held her tongue, and the count, taking a kit from his pocket, prepared to play.
“I’ll be the orchestra,” he said; “I have thought of everything, you see. Come, mesdames, ready.”
Meanwhile, Monsieur d’Hurbain went to Monfréville and said to him in an undertone:
“Really, Monsieur le Comte de Daréna has employed an expedient which—I don’t know whether I ought to assent to this. His scheme seems to me rather shady.”
“Why so?” rejoined Monfréville. “Daréna is cleverer than we are. I think that his method of seduction is all right. After all, the young fellow would go to the Opéra, if he went to Paris; so what is the harm of letting him see here what he would see on the stage? In fact, it seems to me that the illusion is much less.”