"Loto has not a shred of beauty.
She is a big, angular, raw-boned Normande, with a rough voice and a villainous patois; but to be well with Loto is to have achieved distinction at once.

She will have nothing under the third order of nobility; and Prince Paul shot the Duc de Var about her the other day.
She is a great creature, Loto; nobody knows her secret." "Audacity, my friend! Always that!" said Chanrellon, with a twist of his superb mustaches.

"It is the finest quality out; nothing so sure to win.
Hallo! There is le beau corporal listening.

Ah! Bel-a-faire-peur, you fell, too, among the Lotos and the Coeurs d'Acier once, I will warrant." The Chasseur, who was passing, paused and smiled a little, as he saluted.
"Coeurs d'Acier are to be found in all ranks of the sex, monsieur, I fancy!" "Bah! you beg the question.

Did not a woman send you out here ?" "No, monsieur--only chance." "A fig for your chance! Women are the mischief that casts us adrift to chance." "Monsieur, we cast ourselves sometimes." "Dieu de Dieu! I doubt that.