“Monsieur Dorimon.”
“An independent gentleman?”
“Of course.”
“His daughter, Célestine.”
“—tine. What next?”
“Colonel Sainval.”
“Sainval is stale. I should say Valsin.”
Beside the vaudeville aspirants, another group, which was also taking advantage of the uproar to talk low, was discussing a duel. An old fellow of thirty was counselling a young one of eighteen, and explaining to him what sort of an adversary he had to deal with.
“The deuce! Look out for yourself. He is a fine swordsman. His play is neat. He has the attack, no wasted feints, wrist, dash, lightning, a just parade, mathematical parries, bigre ! and he is left-handed.”
In the angle opposite Grantaire, Joly and Bahorel were playing dominoes, and talking of love.
“You are in luck, that you are,” Joly was saying. “You have a mistress who is always laughing.”
“That is a fault of hers,” returned Bahorel. “One’s mistress does wrong to laugh. That encourages one to deceive her. To see her gay removes your remorse; if you see her sad, your conscience pricks you.”
“Ingrate! a woman who laughs is such a good thing! And you never quarrel!”