virtuous as that beautiful biblical girl whose name we bear; we can
always marry as we please, but we are thirsty for Paris, where
charming creatures--and we are no fool--get rich without trouble. We
want to go and see if the great capital of pleasures hasn't some young
Chevalier de Valois in store for us, with a carriage, diamonds, an
opera-box, and so forth. Russians, Austrians, Britons, have millions
on which we have an eye. Besides, we are patriotic; we want to help
France in getting back her money from the pockets of those gentry.
Hey! hey! my dear little devil's duck! it isn't a bad plan. The world
you live in may cry out a bit, but success justifies all things. The
worst thing in this world, my dear, is to be without money; that's our
disease, yours and mine. Now inasmuch as we have plenty of wit, we
thought it would be a good thing to parade our dear little honor, or
dishonor, to catch an old boy; but that old boy, my dear heart, knows
the Alpha and Omega of female tricks,--which means that you could
easier put salt on a sparrow's tail than to make me believe I have
anything to do with your little affair. Go to Paris, my dear; go at
the cost of an old celibate, I won't prevent it; in fact, I'll help
you, for an old bachelor, Suzanne, is the natural money-box of a young
girl. But don't drag me into the matter. Listen, my queen, you who
know life pretty well; you would me great harm and give me much pain,
--harm, because you would prevent my marriage in a town where people
cling to morality; pain, because if you are in trouble (which I deny,
you sly puss!) I haven't a penny to get you out of it. I'm as poor as
a church mouse; you know that, my dear. Ah! if I marry Mademoiselle
Cormon, if I am once more rich, of course I would prefer you to
Cesarine. You've always seemed to me as fine as the gold they gild on
lead; you were made to be the love of a great seigneur. I think you so
clever that the trick you are trying to play off on me doesn't
surprise me one bit; I expected it. You are flinging the scabbard