Rocdiane, of good family, with the entree to all salons, though suspected of financial intrigues of many kinds (which, according to Bertin, was not surprising, since he had lived so much in the gaming-houses), married, but separated from his wife, who paid him an annuity, a director of Belgian and Portuguese banks, carried boldly upon his energetic, Don Quixote-like face the somewhat tarnished honor of a gentleman, which was occasionally brightened by the blood from a thrust in a duel.

The Comte de Landa, a good-natured colossus, proud of his figure and his shoulders, although married and the father of two children, found it difficult to dine at home three times a week; he remained at the club on the other days, with his friends, after the session in the fencing-hall.

“The club is a family,” he said, “the family of those who as yet have none, of those who never will have one, and of those who are bored by their own.”

The conversation branched off on the subject of women, glided from anecdotes to reminiscences, from reminiscences to boasts, and then to indiscreet confidences.

The Marquis de Rocdiane allowed the names of his inamoratas to be guessed by unmistakable hints—­society women whose names he did not utter, so that their identity might be the better surmised.  The banker Liverdy indicated his flames by their first names.  He would say:  “I was at that time the best of friends with the wife of a diplomat.  Now, one evening when I was leaving her, I said to her, ’My little Marguerite’”—­then he checked himself, amid the smiles of his fellows, adding “Ha!  I let something slip.  One should form a habit of calling all women Sophie.”

Olivier Bertin, very reserved, was accustomed to declare, when questioned: 

“For my part, I content myself with my models.”

They pretended to believe him, and Landa, who was frankly a libertine, grew quite excited at the idea of all the pretty creatures that walked the streets and all the young persons who posed undraped before the painter at ten francs an hour.

As the bottle became empty, all these gray-beards, as the younger members of the club called them, acquired red faces, and their kindling ardor awakened new desires.

Rocdiane, after the coffee, became still more indiscreet, and forgot the society women to celebrate the charms of simple cocottes.

“Paris!” said he, a glass of kummel in his hand, “The only city where a man never grows old, the only one where, at fifty, if he is sound and well preserved, he will always find a young girl, as pretty as an angel, to love him.”

Landa, finding again his Rocdiane after the liqueurs, applauded him enthusiastically, and mentioned the young girls who still adored him every day.

But Liverdy, more skeptical, and pretending to know exactly what women were worth, murmured:  “Yes, they tell you that they adore you!”

“They prove it to me, my dear fellow,” exclaimed Landa.