“I not only admit it, but I take pride in having them.”
Mlle. de Sandoval turned her head away contemptuously; the twist Cæsar gave to her questions appeared to irritate her.
“Mlle. de Sandoval doesn’t like me much,” said Cæsar to Mlle. Cadet.
“No? She generally says nice things about you.”
“Perhaps my clothes appeal to her, or the way I tie my cravat; but my ideas displease her.”
“Because you say such severe things.”
“Why do you say that at this moment? Because I spoke disparagingly of those Germans? Are they attractive to you?”
“Oh, no! Not at all.”
“They look like hunting dogs.” “But whom do you approve of? The English?”
“Not the English, either. They are a herd of cattle; sentimental, ridiculous people who are in ecstatics over their aristocracy and over their king. Latin peoples are something like cats, they are of the feline race; a Frenchman is like a fat, well-fed cat; an Italian is like an old Angora which has kept its beautiful fur; and the Spaniard is like the cats on a roof, skinny, bare of fur, almost too weak to howl with despair and hunger.... Then there are the ophidians, the Jews, the Greeks, the Armenians....”