"But," said Philippe, "I should like to know how far her good graces
go for such an iron-gray old trooper as you."
"Thank God," replied Giroudeau, "I've stuck to the traditions of our
glorious uniform. I have never wasted a farthing upon a woman in my
life."
"What's that?" said Philippe, putting a finger on his left eye.
"That is so," answered Giroudeau. "But, between ourselves, the
newspaper counts for a good deal. To-morrow, in a couple of lines, we
shall advise the managers to let Mademoiselle Florentine dance a
particular step, and so forth. Faith, my dear boy, I'm uncommonly
lucky!"
"Well!" thought Philippe; "if this worthy Giroudeau, with a skull as
polished as my knee, forty-eight years, a big stomach, a face like a
ploughman, and a nose like a potato, can get a ballet-girl, I ought to
be the lover of the first actress in Paris. Where does one find such
luck?" he said aloud.
"I'll show you Florentine's place to-night. My Dulcinea only earns
fifty francs a month at the theatre," added Giroudeau, "but she is
very prettily set up, thanks to an old silk dealer named Cardot, who
gives her five hundred francs a month."
"Well, but--?" exclaimed the jealous Philippe.
"Bah!" said Giroudeau; "true love is blind."
When the play was over Giroudeau took Philippe to Mademoiselle
Florentine's _appartement_, which was close to the theatre, in the rue
de Crussol.
"We must behave ourselves," said Giroudeau.
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