"What do they want with their Bismarck?" muttered La Faloise, whose
constant pretense it was to be bored in good society. "One's ready to
kick the bucket here. A pretty idea of yours it was to want to come!"
Fauchery questioned him abruptly.
"Now tell me, does the countess admit someone to her embraces?"
"Oh dear, no, no! My dear fellow!" he stammered, manifestly taken aback
and quite forgetting his pose. "Where d'you think we are?"
After which he was conscious of a want of up-to-dateness in this
outburst of indignation and, throwing himself back on a great sofa, he
added:
"Gad! I say no! But I don't know much about it. There's a little chap
out there, Foucarmont they call him, who's to be met with everywhere
and at every turn. One's seen faster men than that, though, you bet.
However, it doesn't concern me, and indeed, all I know is that if the
countess indulges in high jinks she's still pretty sly about it, for the
thing never gets about--nobody talks."
Then although Fauchery did not take the trouble to question him, he told
him all he knew about the Muffats. Amid the conversation of the ladies,
which still continued in front of the hearth, they both spoke in subdued
tones, and, seeing them there with their white cravats and gloves, one
might have supposed them to be discussing in chosen phraseology some
really serious topic.
Pages:
91
92
93
94
95
96
97
98
99
100
101
102
103
104
105
106
107
108
109
110
111
112
113
114
115