“But, Monsieur le chevalier,” said the grisette, “the matter now concerns the morals and honor of your poor little Suzanne, and I hope you won’t abandon her.”

“Abandon her!” cried the chevalier, finishing his hair; “I’d sooner abandon my own name.”

“Ah!” exclaimed Suzanne.

“Now, listen to me, you little mischief,” said the chevalier, sitting down on a huge sofa, formerly called a duchesse, which Madame Lardot had been at some pains to find for him.

He drew the magnificent Suzanne before him, holding her legs between his knees.  She let him do as he liked, although in the street she was offish enough to other men, refusing their familiarities partly from decorum and partly for contempt for their commonness.  She now stood audaciously in front of the chevalier, who, having fathomed in his day many other mysteries in minds that were far more wily, took in the situation at a single glance.  He knew very well that no young girl would joke about a real dishonor; but he took good care not to knock over the pretty scaffolding of her lie as he touched it.

“We slander ourselves,” he said with inimitable craft; “we are as 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 after the sword, and that’s daring for a girl.  It takes nerve and superior ideas to do it, my angel, and therefore you have won my respectful esteem.”