835, had gone soon after the wedding to Italy, Switzerland, and
Germany, where they spent the greater part of two years. Returning to
Paris in November, 1837, the countess entered society for the first time
as a married woman during the winter which had just ended, and she then
became aware of the existence, half-suppressed and wholly dumb but very
useful, of a species of factotum who was personally invisible, named
Paz,--spelt thus, but pronounced "Patz."

"Monsieur le capitaine Paz begs Madame la comtesse to excuse him," said
the footman, returning. "He is at the stables; as soon as he has changed
his dress Comte Paz will present himself to Madame."

"What was he doing at the stables?"

"He was showing them how to groom Madame's horse," said the man. "He was
not pleased with the way Constantin did it."

The countess looked at the footman. He was perfectly serious and did not
add to his words the sort of smile by which servants usually comment
on the actions of a superior who seems to them to derogate from his
position.

"Ah! he was grooming Cora."

"Madame la comtesse intends to ride out this morning?" said the footman,
leaving the room without further answer.

"Is Paz a Pole?" asked Clementine, turning to her husband, who nodded by
way of affirmation.

Madame Laginska was silent, examining Adam. With her feet extended upon
a cushion and her head poised like that of a bird on the edge of
its nest listening to the noises in a grove, she would have seemed
enchanting even to a blase man. Fair and slender, and wearing her
hair in curls, she was not unlike those semi-romantic pictures in
the Keepsakes, especially when dressed, as she was this morning, in a
breakfast gown of Persian silk, the folds of which could not disguise
the beauty of her figure or the slimness of her waist. The silk with its
brilliant colors being crossed upon the bosom showed the spring of the
neck,--its whiteness contrasting delightfully against the tones of a
guipure lace which lay upon her shoulders. Her eyes and their long
black lashes added at this moment to the expression of curiosity which
puckered her pretty mouth. On the forehead, which was well modelled,
an observer would have noticed a roundness characteristic of the true
Parisian woman,--self-willed, merry, well-informed, but inaccessible
to vulgar seductions. Her hands, which were almost transparent, were
hanging down at the end of each arm of her chair; the tapering fingers,
s