n is so shrivelled and old
you would take him for eighty! He's as dry as parchment, and, unluckily
for him, he feels his position."

"Most men would," said Pere Leger.

"He adores his wife and dares not find fault with her," pursued Oscar,
rejoicing to have found a topic to which they listened. "He plays scenes
with her which would make you die of laughing,--exactly like Arnolphe in
Moliere's comedy."

The count, horror-stricken, looked at Pierrotin, who, finding that the
count said nothing, concluded that Madame Clapart's son was telling
falsehoods.

"So, monsieur," continued Oscar, "if you want the count's influence, I
advise you to apply to the Marquis d'Aiglemont. If you get that former
adorer of Madame de Serizy on your side, you will win husband and wife
at one stroke."

"Look here!" said the painter, "you seem to have seen the count without
his clothes; are you his valet?"

"His valet!" cried Oscar.

"Hang it! people don't tell such things about their friends in public
conveyances," exclaimed Mistigris. "As for me, I'm not listening to you;
I'm deaf: 'discretion plays the better part of adder.'"

"'A poet is nasty and not fit,' and so is a tale-bearer," cried
Schinner.

"Great painter," said Georges, sententiously, "learn this: you can't
say harm of people you don't know. Now the little one here has proved,
indubitably, that he knows his Serizy by heart. If he had told us about
the countess, perhaps--?"

"Stop! not a word about the Comtesse de Serizy, young men," cried the
count. "I am a friend of her brother, the Marquis de Ronquerolles, and
whoever attempts to speak disparagingly of the countess must answer to
me."

"Monsieur is right," cried the painter; "no man should blaguer women."

"God, Honor, and the Ladies! I believe in that melodrama," said
Mistigris.

"I don't know the guerrilla chieftain, Mina, but I know the Keeper of
the Seals," continued the count, looking at Georges; "and though I don't
wear my decorations," he added, looking at the painter, "I prevent those
who do not deserve them from obtaining any. And finally, let me say that
I know so many persons that I even know Monsieur Grindot, the architect
of Presles. Pierrotin, stop at the next inn; I want to get out a
moment."

Pierrotin hurried his horses through the village street of Moisselles,
at the end of which was the inn where all travellers stopped. This short
distance was done in silence.

"Where is that young fool goi