Don Diego Bustos had the matter explained to him at length, while he said nothing, like a barrister in his chambers. He had a big monk-like face with black moustaches and an inimitable gravity; he was, however, a good carbonaro.
“I understand,” he said to Julien at last. “Has the maréchale de Fervaques had lovers, or has she not? Have you consequently any hope of success? That is the question. I don’t mind telling you, for my own part, that I have failed. Now that I am no more piqued I reason it out to myself in this way; she is often bad tempered, and as I will tell you in a minute, she is quite vindictive.
“I fail to detect in her that bilious temperament which is the sign of genius, and shows as it were a veneer of passion over all its actions. On the contrary, she owes her rare beauty and her fresh complexion to the phlegmatic, tranquil character of the Dutch.”
Julien began to lose patience with the phlegmatic slowness of the imperturbable Spaniard; he could not help giving vent to some monosyllables from time to time.
“Will you listen to me?” Don Diego Bustos gravely said to him.
“Forgive the furia franchese; I am all ears,” said Julien.
“The maréchale de Fervaques then is a great hater; she persecutes ruthlessly people she has never seen—advocates, poor devils of men of letters who have composed songs like Collé, you know?
“J’ai la marotte
D’aimer Marote, etc.”
And Julien had to put up with the whole quotation.
The Spaniard was very pleased to get a chance of singing in French.