In spite of the gross flattery and coarseness of this address, Madame Danglars could not forbear gazing with considerable interest on a man capable of expending six millions in twelve months, and who had selected Paris for the scene of his princely extravagance.
“And when did you arrive here?” inquired she.
“Yesterday morning, madame.”
“Coming, as usual, I presume, from the extreme end of the globe? Pardon me—at least, such I have heard is your custom.”
“Nay, madame. This time I have merely come from Cadiz.”
“You have selected a most unfavorable moment for your first visit. Paris is a horrible place in summer. Balls, parties, and fêtes are over; the Italian opera is in London; the French opera everywhere except in Paris. As for the Théatre Français, you know, of course, that it is nowhere. The only amusements left us are the indifferent races at the Champ-de-Mars and Satory. Do you propose entering any horses at either of these races, count?”
“I shall do whatever they do at Paris, madame, if I have the good fortune to find someone who will initiate me into the prevalent ideas of amusement.”
“Are you fond of horses, count?”
“I have passed a considerable part of my life in the East, madame, and you are doubtless aware that the Orientals value only two things—the fine breeding of their horses and the beauty of their women.”
“Nay, count,” said the baroness, “it would have been somewhat more gallant to have placed the ladies first.”