Smiling benevolently, Mme. Sutrin turned to face them. Her tight black bodice was pointed like a basque, and a large plastron of jet beads was applied down its generous front from the high collar about her neck to where her skirt was gathered in at her expansive waist. The unmistakable shadow of a coming event decorated her upper lip.
“Aha,” boomed Mme. Sutrin in the mighty bass which once had been a magic contralto, “and to what lady of the Opéra Comique do you want me to introduce you now?”
“Ah, madame,” said Savillhac, “you deceive yourself. I have brought a young man to introduce to you. The most extraordinary young man in Paris, in fact. My friend Ventrillon, the youngest prize winner of the spring Salon.” With a fine gesture he produced Ventrillon from invisibility.
Mme. Sutrin gasped as if struck in the face.
“Bon dieu!” she exploded at last, “Adonis!”
“Enchanted, madame,” murmured Ventrillon. “I am honoured——”
“Don’t waste a look like that on an old woman!” boomed Mme. Sutrin. “Young man, this world is badly arranged. Either I should have been born twenty years later, or you twenty years earlier. You should have known me in my youth. Both of us would have profited.
“I know nothing about painting,” she rumbled on, “and I do not like yours; but I like you, though your clothes are abominable. Come to my house Wednesday afternoon. It will be a dancing. Do you fox trot? But it does not matter. Smile at everybody the way you are smiling at me, and grow a moustache as soon as you can.” She turned to Savillhac. “If Gabrielle sees him, his fortune is made. You know how she goes in for the young ones. But those clothes will never do. I’ll wager he hasn’t a sou. But make him sell his bed and buy something that wouldn’t shame a cab driver.” Then abruptly she shook hands with both the young men and, swinging her skirts, waddled her way.
“A droll of a type,” commented Ventrillon.
“Sacré nom de dieu!” breathed Savillhac, staring at him aghast.