“Yes,” I said, “one of those laced, braced, corseted old fellows of sixty, who work such wonders by the grace of their forms, and who might give a lesson to the youngest dandies among us.”

“Monsieur de Lustrac is as selfish as a king, but gallant and pretentious, spite of his jet black wig.”

“As to his whiskers, he dyes them.”

“He goes to ten parties in an evening:  he’s a butterfly.”

“He gives capital dinners and concerts, and patronizes inexperienced songstresses.”

“He takes bustle for pleasure.”

“Yes, but he makes off with incredible celerity whenever a misfortune occurs.  Are you in mourning, he avoids you.  Are you confined, he awaits your churching before he visits you.  He possesses a mundane frankness and a social intrepidity which challenge admiration.”

“But does it not require courage to appear to be what one really is?” I asked.

“Well,” she resumed, after we had exchanged our observations on this point, “this young old man, this universal Amadis, whom we call among ourselves Chevalier Petit-Bon-Homme-vil-encore, became the object of my admiration.  I made him a few of those advances which never compromise a woman; I spoke of the good taste exhibited in his latest waistcoats and in his canes, and he thought me a lady of extreme amiability.  I thought him a chevalier of extreme youth; he called upon me; I put on a number of little airs, and pretended to be unhappy at home, and to have deep sorrows.  You know what a woman means when she talks of her sorrows, and complains that she is not understood.  The old ape replied much better than a young man would, and I had the greatest difficulty in keeping a straight face while I listened to him.

“’Ah, that’s the way with husbands, they pursue the very worst polity, they respect their wives, and, sooner or later, every woman is enraged at finding herself respected, and divines the secret education to which she is entitled.  Once married, you ought not to live like a little school-girl, etc.’

“As he spoke, he leaned over me, he squirmed, he was horrible to see.  He looked like a wooden Nuremberg doll, he stuck out his chin, he stuck out his chair, he stuck out his hand—­in short, after a variety of marches and countermarches, of declarations that were perfectly angelic—­”

“No!”

“Yes. Petit-Bon-Homme-vil-encore had abandoned the classicism of his youth for the romanticism now in fashion:  he spoke of the soul, of angels, of adoration, of submission, he became ethereal, and of the darkest blue.  He took me to the opera, and handed me to my carriage.  This old young man went when I went, his waistcoats multiplied, he compressed his waist, he excited his horse to a gallop in order to catch and accompany my carriage to the promenade:  he compromised me with the grace of a young collegian, and was considered madly in love with me.  I was steadfastly cruel, but accepted