As soon as we were alone in the carriage in the Rue Rivoli, I had to repulse another attack from mama:
"He's simply charming. I should think that you would never insist on Cluny now."
"No. I waive that. Never mind Cluny."
"That's right. Then you've decided?"
"Not yet, mama; not yet. One oughtn't to rush madly into marriage after having got a little information about a man's fortune and situation."
"But what more do you want?"
"To see him on horseback. He's seen me riding, but I haven't seen him."
In short, Madame de Mercerey, whose devotion is indefatigable, is going to advise him to-night to go and ride about at the entrance of the Avenue des Acacias about ten o'clock to-morrow morning. As inducement she will hint delicately that he may possibly meet papa and me. For papa—I must say that papa astonishes me—he is acting the rôle of a father who has a marriageable daughter to perfection. He hasn't mounted a horse for four years, but to-morrow he is going to risk a broken neck.
November 20th.
We had a ride round the Bois—all three of us—papa, he, and I. He looks very well on horseback. He rode a splendid bay mare. I will take her for myself, and will pass Triboulet on to him, for I know Triboulet too well, and am tired of him.