A pretty idea of yours it was to want to come!" Fauchery questioned him abruptly.
"Now tell me, does the countess admit someone to her embraces ?" "Oh dear, no, no! My dear fellow!" he stammered, manifestly taken aback and quite forgetting his pose.

"Where d'you think we are ?" After which he was conscious of a want of up-to-dateness in this outburst of indignation and, throwing himself back on a great sofa, he added: "Gad! I say no! But I don't know much about it.

There's a little chap out there, Foucarmont they call him, who's to be met with everywhere and at every turn.

One's seen faster men than that, though, you bet.
However, it doesn't concern me, and indeed, all I know is that if the countess indulges in high jinks she's still pretty sly about it, for the thing never gets about--nobody talks." Then although Fauchery did not take the trouble to question him, he told him all he knew about the Muffats.

Amid the conversation of the ladies, which still continued in front of the hearth, they both spoke in subdued tones, and, seeing them there with their white cravats and gloves, one might have supposed them to be discussing in chosen phraseology some really serious topic.