The other was twenty-four years of age; he was small, dark, yellow-skinned, and would have been decidedly ugly, except that his black eyes were so full of fire and animation that they imparted much expression to his countenance. He might have passed for a clever fellow, if he had not had the folly to blush for his family and to lose his temper whenever anyone mentioned the name of his father. Both these gentlemen belonged to wealthy families. Mousseraud was the son of a provincial notary and proposed to purchase a brokerage business in Paris; Chiponard, whose father was a retired watchmaker, proposed to do nothing at all. They both displayed great friendliness to Daréna because he was of noble birth, and he reciprocated because they were rich. In society there is an almost constant interchange of these selfish sentiments. “Come, come, Marquis Chérubin,” said Daréna, “we are waiting for you; the breakfast is all ordered, and it will be rather fine; I understand such matters.” “You’re a little late,” said Oscar. “He has probably been to bid one of his mistresses good-morning,” added the tall Mousseraud, stroking his chin. “My mistresses!” repeated Chérubin artlessly; “oh! I haven’t any.” “Hasn’t any, indeed!” cried Daréna, nudging him; “I trust that you don’t believe that! The fact is that he has them in all quarters; he is a downright villain with the women already.--Don’t say that you have no mistresses,” he added in Chérubin’s ear; “people will laugh at you and point their fingers at you as a curiosity. And it’s a fact, my dear fellow, that for a young man of eighteen, you are very backward.” Chérubin blushed and hastily took his seat at the table. During the breakfast Mousseraud talked incessantly of his _bonnes fortunes_, while Oscar from time to time made malicious comments upon what his friend said. Daréna ate, drank, and laughed at their speeches. Chérubin listened to everything with the utmost good faith, simply uttering exclamations of wonder when their adventures seemed to him extraordinary. “Yes, messieurs,” said the tall red-blond, “at this moment I have five mistresses, without counting two others who are on the waiting list.” “Waiting for what?” sneered Oscar. “Parbleu! that is plain enough: waiting for the intrigue to be consummated; it will be arranged this week, or next at the latest.” “Then you will have seven mistresses, just like a rooster!” “Oh! you may pretend to joke, Oscar, but it’s the truth. Indeed, I sometimes have more.” “You are getting to be a terrible fellow, Monsieur de Mousseraud!” said Daréna; “however, if your conquests are pretty, accept my congratulations.” “Four of them are enchanting, two very nice, and one passable. But I shall let the last three go; I intend to keep only the first quality.” “What’s that! can you let a mistress go?” inquired Chérubin with a surprised expression.