"Now, you have promised me proofs for this week."
While Fortier was trying to convince her that the Revue spéculative was unworthy of her qualities, that money, rare everywhere, had a sort of dread of his till, Moscowitch asked:
"Who is this woman?"
"They call her the Marquise, why I do not know. Her coins have earned her better names: the Medal Cabinet, and this one, the Reliquary, most cruel of all. Then, as she signs herself 'Françoise' to kitchen recipes, Renaudeau has nicknamed her Françoise the Blue-Stocking. She probably has a real name; it is either ordinary or insignificant."
"To think that at my age," Renaudeau said, "I have never seen any blue stockings. The modistes wear them red most often, and it is among them I have my loves."
"Red? I, too," the Marquise said.
She camped her foot on a chair, lifting her petticoat as far as the garter.
The leg was still pretty and her repartee clever.
Renaudeau, confessing himself outflanked by the movement, bowed and assumed the air of one wishing to say, "I regret I can do no more."
"And I, too," the eyes of the Marquise answered.