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Updated: June 8, 2025
Then he said to her good-naturedly, "Who do you want, my dear?" "M. Rodin," repeated Rose-Pompon, stoutly, opening her bright blue eyes to their full extent, and looking Rodin full in the face. "It's not here," said he, moving towards the stairs. "I do not know him. Inquire above or below." "No, you don't! giving yourself airs at your age!" said Rose-Pompon, shrugging her shoulders.
"They could not be more so." Here Dumoulin spoke the truth. "I shall not have to be unfaithful to Philemon?" "No." "Or faithful to any one else?" "No." Rose-Pompon looked confounded. Then she rattled on: "Come, do not let us have any joking! I am not foolish enough to imagine that I am to live just like a duchess, just for nothing. What, therefore, must I give in return?" "Nothing at all."
"But, to come back to the point," resumed Rose-Pompon, "what can he do all alone in those two rooms? If Cephyse should take the closet, on Philemon's return, we may amuse ourselves by finding out something about it. How much do they want for the little room?"
"Rose-Pompon," returned Ninny Moulin, with a still more majestic air, "these trifles are nothing to what you may obtain, if you will but follow the advice of your old friend." Rose began to look at Dumoulin with surprise, and said to him, "What does all this mean, Ninny Moulin? Explain yourself; what advice have you to give?"
Rose-Pompon, a widow for the moment, whose bacchanalian cicisbeo was Ninny Moulin, the orthodox scapegrace, who, on occasion, after drinking his fill, could transform himself into Jacques Dumoulin, the religious writer, and pass gayly from dishevelled dances to ultramontane polemics, from Storm-blown Tulips to Catholic pamphlets.
In the interview, with which Rose-Pompon had threatened her, and which a few minutes before Adrienne would have declined with all the dignity of legitimate indignation, she now hoped to find the explanation of a mystery, which it was of such importance for her to clear up.
"They could not be more so." Here Dumoulin spoke the truth. "I shall not have to be unfaithful to Philemon?" "No." "Or faithful to any one else?" "No." Rose-Pompon looked confounded. Then she rattled on: "Come, do not let us have any joking! I am not foolish enough to imagine that I am to live just like a duchess, just for nothing. What, therefore, must I give in return?" "Nothing at all."
Her naked feet, so white that one could not tell if she wore stockings or not, were slipped into little morocco shoes, with plated buckles. It was easy to perceive that her cloak concealed some article which she held in her hand. "Good-day, Rose-Pompon," said Mother Arsene with a kindly air; "you are early this morning. Had you no dance last night?"
Placed directly opposite the box in which Faringhea, Djalma, and Rose Pompon had just taken their seats, Lady Morinval soon perceived the arrival of these two personages, and particularly the eccentric coquetries of Rose-Pompon.
I am delighted both for you and myself." "For yourself?" "Yes; because, in accepting, you render me a great service." "You? How so?" "It matters little, as long as I feel obliged to you." "True." "Come, then; let us set out!" "Bah! after all, they cannot eat me," said Rose-Pompon, resolutely.
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