The four rascals were seated on the ground, conversing in low tones. De Berquin and I sat down in the midst of the group. The fellows went on talking, regardless of the presence of their leader, who gave no heed to their babble, except occasionally by a gesture to caution Barbemouche to lessen his volume of voice.
"I never knew an enterprise to run smoothly which had anything to do with women," Barbemouche was saying. "Where men only are concerned, one knows exactly what to do, and makes no mistakes."
"You have a prejudice against the sex," put in the foppish fellow.
"Par dieu! I ought not to have!" answered Barbemouche. "I owe them too much for the many favors I've had from them. But they are mystifying creatures. To mistake a maid for her mistress is nothing remarkable. For that matter, I've known women of the lower orders who had more airs than great ladies. I remember once, after having just made an easy conquest of a countess, and become ennuied with her, I turned my attention to the daughter of a pastry-cook in Paris. She dug deep holes in my face for merely trying to kiss her. She had velvet lips, that girl, but what claws!"
The gaunt rascal, whom they called François, heaved a pensive sigh, as if this reminiscence awakened touching memories in him.
"And yet, to show the perversity of the sex," continued Barbemouche, "that same day I saw another man kiss her, and she gave him back two kisses for his one."
"Perhaps he was a handsome man," said the fat fellow, sagely.
"Yes," replied Barbemouche, ingenuously, "but no handsomer than I."
"At that time you were probably handsomer even than you are now," dryly observed the gaunt man.
"You are right," said Barbemouche, "for I was young, and I did not have this scar," and he thrust back the rim of his hat and laid his hand on his forehead.