“That is true,” I replied.
Breloque, unaccustomed to find one entering so fully into his views, felt flattered.
“Sir,” he said in a tone marked by perfect self-satisfaction, “I have thought deeply on subjects most profound, and I feel convinced, if the world would only give me a fair hearing, I could earn a wide reputation—nor would it be a borrowed one.”
“Apropos of borrowed fame, let us hear the history of your fox. You abuse the privilege granted by thus trifling with my patience.”
“Ah, sir, you misjudge me. This is only a subtle, roundabout way of leading your mind up to the theme. I am now all for you, and will only permit myself to put one question—What do you think of butterfly-catching?”
“Wretch!” I exclaimed, “am I here to discuss the fortunes of all created things before the one which occupies me? You forget the hatred that fills my breast, the mask of hypocrisy which the fox craftily assumes to attract tender chickens, lambs, doves, and his thousand victims.”
“What calumnies!” replied Breloque. “I hope to avenge the fox of all his enemies by proving that in love he is stupid, unselfish, and tender-hearted. For the moment I have the honour of returning to the butterfly-hunt.”
I made an impatient gesture, to which he replied with such a look of supplication that I was completely disarmed. Besides, I had the imprudence to let him see that the exciting pastime interested me.
Breloque satisfied, took a second pinch of snuff, and half lay down in his arm-chair.