Topaze Page #3

- Are you sure?

- If you succeed, it's fabulous.

Then you slowly approach her,

lower your voice,

and you pounce!

Pounce!

- How do you pounce?

- A bit of emotion, poetry,

and a request in due form.

If she hesitates, be daring,

kiss her.

Kiss her? But what will she do?

She might just be in raptures.

That would be marvelous,

but I don't dare hope.

You never know.

Or perhaps her modesty

will cause her to react,

she might push you away and say:

"What are you doing, sir?"

But no matter,

as long as she doesn't cry for help,

it means "yes".

And the kiss? Where?

On her forehead?

Silly man!

A kiss on the mouth.

On the mouth?

- You've done that before?

- Dozens of times.

Well then, I'll try.

What worries me most, is the father.

Yes, the father. He's certainly not

the same kettle of fish.

Oh, the father.

I'm sure he esteems me,

he knows I'm perfectly honest,

but a refusal

would cause me such pain that...

I'd rather sound him out first.

I know what you're getting at!

You want me to do it?

- I didn't dare ask.

- Fine, at the first opportunity.

Be discreet,

don't arouse his suspicions.

You know me, I'll approach

the question with great tact.

The moment seems favorable,

for this very morning

I announced the arrival

of a new student.

- Where did you unearth him?

- I give him private lessons.

I advised his parents

to put him here.

The boss will be happy,

but you'll lose your lessons.

I didn't want them anymore.

- They're not well paid?

- To the contrary.

It's a long story.

Imagine, this child lives

with a young woman, who's his aunt.

She's very young. Neither married,

nor divorced nor a widow.

Then what is she?

I believe she's an orphan.

But very rich.

She received me the first time in

a boudoir from the Arabian nights.

Silk fabrics, antique paintings,

cushions on the floor.

She must be rich.

You can't imagine.

Almost every day after my lesson,

a distinguished gentleman,

he must be a servant,

takes me to the boudoir,

where the young woman questions me

as to the child's progress.

My dear friend,

maybe it's the dcor,

or perhaps her perfume,

but every time I talk to her,

I can't remember what I've said.

You're simply not a man of the world.

I'd like to see you!

She was sitting on a cushion,

wearing the finest silk stockings,

with precious heels,

and gloves made of snakeskin,

once even gold-colored.

She's a chorus girl!

Don't judge so harshly

a person you've never seen.

She's a lady of society.

High society.

I've met a grand gentleman

at her home several times,

surely a friend of her father's.

- I'm looking for Mr. Topaze.

- Third door on the left.

So this is what I thought...

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