M. Flamaran left the railing and unfolded his napkin. “You may be sure of my white marks, young men,” he said, as he sat down. He was delighted at his success as an orator, and laughed gayly. Jupille, on the other hand, was as pale as if he had been in a street riot, and seemed rooted to the spot where he stood. “It’s all right, Jupille; it’s all right, man! A little ready wit is all you need, dash my wig!” The old clerk gradually regained his composure, and the dinner grew very merry. Flamaran’s spirits, raised by this little incident, never flagged. He had a story for every glass of wine, and told them all with a quiet humor of his own. Toward the end of dinner, by the time the waiter came to offer us “almonds and raisins, pears, peaches, preserves, meringues, brandy cherries,” we had got upon the subject of Sidonie, the pearl of Forez. M. Flamaran narrated to us, with dates, how a friend of his one day depicted to him a young girl at Montbrison, of fresh and pleasing appearance, a good housekeeper, and of excellent family; and how he--M. Flamaran--had forthwith started off to find her, had recognized her before she was pointed out to him, fell in love with her at first sight, and was not long in obtaining her affection in return. The marriage had taken place at St. Galmier. “Yes, my dear Mouillard,” he added, as if pointing a moral, “thirty years ago last May I became a happy man; when do you think of following my example?” At this point, Jupille suddenly found himself one too many, and vanished down the corkscrew stair. “We once spoke of an heiress at Bourges,” M. Flamaran went on. “Apparently that’s all off?” “Quite off.” “You were within your rights; but now, why not a Parisienne?” “Yes, indeed; why not?” “Perhaps you are prejudiced in some way against Parisiennes?” “I? Not the least.” “I used to be, but I’ve got over it now. They have a charm of their own, a certain style of dressing, walking, and laughing which you don’t find outside the fortifications. For a long time I used to think that these qualities stood them in lieu of virtues. That was a slander; there are plenty of Parisiennes endowed with every virtue; I even know a few who are angels.” At this point, M. Flamaran looked me straight in the eyes, and, as I made no reply, he added: “I know one, at least: Jeanne Charnot. Are you listening?” “Yes, Monsieur Flamaran.” “Isn’t she a paragon?” “She is.” “As sensible as she is tender-hearted?” “So I believe.” “And as clever as she is sensible?” “That is my opinion.” “Well, then, young man, if that’s your opinion--excuse my burning my boats, all my boats--if that’s your opinion, I don’t understand why--Do you suppose she has no money?” “I know nothing about her means.” “Don’t make any mistake; she’s a rich woman. Do you think you’re too young to marry?” “No.” “Do you fancy, perhaps, that she is still bound by that unfortunate engagement?” “I trust she is not.”