“I? God forbid, sir, that I should doubt your word.”
In reality, however, I knew neither what to think nor what to believe, for I had curiously examined all these people whom my celebrated compatriot had addressed, and who, through M. de Balzac, as well as through their own achievements, were known and liked throughout civilized Europe. With the exception of Bixion, who was thin, poorly dressed, and not decorated, all the others appeared to be in the most flourishing state of health and fortune. Madame Tullia du Bruel was as appetizing as ever, and La Palférine, familiarly leaning on the back of her chair, exposed an ideal shirt and an impossible vest.
“Does M. de la Palférine no longer visit Madame de Rochegude?” I inquired.
“He is now entirely devoted to Tullia, and asserts that, after all, Du Bruel’s cook is the finest artist in Paris.”
“Is Madame de Rochegude still living?”
“She sits in that second box to the right.”
“Who is with her?”
“Conti.”
“The celebrated musician?”
“Yes, indeed. You remember the song,—