That evening he had two young fellows
with him, one Rossi, a short, swarthy Italian, who had come to Paris as a
painter's model, and had soon glided into the lazy life of certain
disreputable callings, and the other, Sanfaute, a born Parisian
blackguard, a pale, beardless, vicious and impudent stripling of La
Chapelle, whose long curly hair fell down upon either side of his bony
cheeks.
"Oh! pray now!" feverishly said Rosemonde to Bergaz; "as you seem to know
all these horrid people, just show me some of the celebrities. Aren't
there some thieves and murderers among them?"
He laughed shrilly, and in a bantering way replied: "But you know these
people well enough, madame. That pretty, pink, delicate-looking woman
over yonder is an American lady, the wife of a consul, whom, I believe,
you receive at your house. That other on the right, that tall brunette
who shows such queenly dignity, is a Countess, whose carriage passes
yours every day in the Bois. And the thin one yonder, whose eyes glitter
like those of a she-wolf, is the particular friend of a high official,
who is well known for his reputation of austerity."
But she stopped him, in vexation: "I know, I know. But the others, those
of the lower classes, those whom one comes to see."
Then she went on asking questions, and seeking for terrifying and
mysterious countenances.
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