“Yes, they often are,” said Cæsar.
Among all these Italians, who were rather theatrical and ridiculous, insincere and exaggerated, but who had great pliancy and great agility in their movements and their expression, there was one German family, consisting of several persons: a married couple with sons and daughters who seemed to be all made from one piece, cut from the same block. While the rest were busy with the little incidents of the ball, they were talking about the Baths of Caracalla, the aqueducts, the Colosseum. The father, the mother, and the children repeated their lesson in Roman archeology, which they had learned splendidly.
“What very absurd people they are,” murmured Cæsar, watching them.
“Why?” said Mlle. de Sandoval.
“It appeals to these Germans as their duty to make one parcel of everything artistic there is in a country and swallow it whole; which seems to an ignoramus like me, a stupid piece of pretentiousness. The French, on the contrary, are on more solid ground; they don’t understand anything that is not French, and they travel to have the pleasure of saying that Paris is the finest thing on earth.”
“It’s great luck to be so perfect as you are,” retorted Mlle. de Sandoval, violently, “you can see other people’s faults so clearly.”
“You mistake,” replied Cæsar, coldly, “I do not rely on my own good qualities to enable me to speak badly of others.”
“Then what do you rely on?”
“On my defects.”
“Ah, have you defects? Do you admit it?”