"By Notre Dame! who is this green man, who looks not unlike an asparagus stalk?—But I know him! why, yes, it's the Gascon chevalier, Monsieur de Passedix!—Where in the devil did the Prince de Valdimer pick up all these people?"
"My dear De Noirteuil," said La Valteline, "do not make a mistake; Passedix is a genuine chevalier of good family! He is absurd with respect to his physique, his costume, and his pretentious ways—that may be; but he is in no wise out of place here!"
The Gascon had, in fact, laid aside his orange costume. Having succeeded in obtaining an invitation to the Prince de Valdimer's ball, he had determined to create a sensation there by his magnificence, and, above all, by the originality of his costume; he had, in short, decided to do his utmost to forget Miretta; and having found no cure for his troubles in wine, he proposed to himself to make other conquests, hoping that another love would cure him of the passion which had caused him naught but vexation.
For several days, Passedix had reflected upon the subject of the color which would be most becoming to him and at the same time would be likely to attract the eyes of the ladies at a ball. He had decided on apple-green, and had ordered a satin doublet and short-clothes of that color, both slashed with olive-green, to form a contrast with the background. A dark-green girdle surrounded his waist; a short apple-green cloak was fastened to the left shoulder; and lastly, a sea-green velvet cap, surmounted by plumes of the same shade, completed the costume of the chevalier, who resembled an ambulatory tree, and whose entrance had produced an effect even beyond his hopes.
"One could never imagine anything like it, if one did not see it!" said the little old man.
Passedix, who had recognized La Valteline and Montrevert, pushed through the crowd which escorted him, and hastened to join them.
"Hail to the flower of chivalry!" exclaimed La Valteline, smiling.
"Enchanted to meet you, my fine fellows!—Cadédis! what a crowd at this ball! it is gorgeous! it is elegant! The fair sex predominates—so much the better, sandis!—I say with François I: a ball without ladies is a court without roses—no, I mean a springtime—but, no matter!—Ah! but there is our friend the Comte de Marvejols, glued to yonder pillar.—Good-evening, Léodgard! How now! not a word for a comrade?—Can he have gone deaf, I wonder? he does not answer!"
"No," said Montrevert; "but I believe that he has fallen in love with the Marquise de Santoval, who is sitting over yonder."
"The Marquise de Santoval!" repeated Passedix, with difficulty repressing a sigh.