"Pardieu," answered his friend, "that's Alexandre Dumas—who else do you think it would be?"
A certain Parisian named M. Pitre-Chevalier, being a sort of Lyon-Hunter, was (so Villemessant declares) anxious to obtain the presence of all the social celebrities at his salons, and made unheard-of efforts to secure the lion of the hour for one of his evenings. Dumas chose his salons, as he chose his theatre, or the newspaper for his feuilletons, and when it was known in Paris "Dumas will be at So-and-so's tonight!" society attacked the lucky host's house as if it had been the doors of a theatre, on the night of a première; all the company stood up as he entered, and his journey towards his host was a sort of triumphal procession. Pitre-Chevalier had his way; but the next day the gossips of the boulevards talked of nothing but Dumas's latest mot. Asked by a friend whether he had enjoyed the evening with M. Lyon-Hunter, Dumas replied,
"Well, I should have been very bored, if it hadn't been for—myself!"
At one of these soirées Dumas was wearing the ribbon of a certain order, having recently been made a commandant, and an envious friend remarked upon it.
"My dear fellow," he said, "that cordon is a wretched colour! One would think it was your woollen vest that was showing!"
