“In that case, I will join you. You will understand that it is painful to close one’s purse to misfortune; but with the best will in the world, one can give only what one has. Until to-morrow then, my dear La Thomassinière.”
“Your very humble servant, monsieur le marquis.”
When the marquis had gone, La Thomassinière considered whether he should return to the salon. He decided to join Dalville—indeed he considered it his duty to begin to treat him coolly, so that the young man would not be tempted to disregard the orders which he proposed to give to his concierge.
Dalville had remained with Athalie. That young lady, after compassionating the young man, and assuring him that she was grieved by his misfortune, remembered that a new play was to be given at the Français that evening, and she exclaimed:
“I must not fail to be there. Have you hired a box, Monsieur Auguste?”
“I no longer hire boxes, madame,” was the reply; “I purchase my ticket modestly at the box-office. Sometimes I even stand in the line, and do not indulge myself with a seat in the resplendent orchestra.”
“Stand in the line!” said Athalie; and her smile became less expansive. “Oh! how shocking!”
A minute or two later the young coquette noticed that there were several spots of mud on Dalville’s boots.
“How is this, monsieur? You, who are always so exquisitely shod—you must have been splashed to-day! I can hardly believe it is you.”
“Still another result of my penury, madame. When I had a cabriolet, it was a simple matter for me always to have my boots spotlessly clean; but when one goes on foot, one must expect to be more open to criticism in one’s dress.”