That old soldier, without
any prejudices, had, by a mulattress, a son whom he recognized and to
whom he left--I do not know how many dollars. 'Inde' Lydia and Florent.
Do not interrupt, it is almost finished. We shall have, to represent
England, a Catholic wedded to a Pole, Madame Gorka, the wife of Boleslas,
and, lastly, Paris, in the form of your servant. It is now I who will
essay to drag you away, for were you to join our party, you, the feudal,
it would be complete.... Will you come?"

"Has the blow satisfied you?" asked Montfanon. "And the unhappy man has
talent," he exclaimed, talking of Dorsenne as if the latter were not
present, "and he has written ten pages on Rhodes which are worthy of
Chateaubriand, and he has received from God the noblest gifts--poetry,
wit, the sense of history; and in what society does he delight! But,
come, once for all, explain to me the pleasure which a man of your genius
can find in frequenting that international Bohemia, more or less gilded,
in which there is not one being who has standing or a history. I no
longer allude to that scoundrel Hafner and his daughter, since you have
for her, novelist that you are, the eyes of Monsieur Guerillot. But that
Countess Steno, who must be at least forty, who has a grown daughter,
should she not remain quietly in her palace at Venice, respectably,
bravely, instead of holding here that species of salon for transients,
through which pass all the libertines of Europe, instead of having lover
after lover, a Pole after a Russian, an American after a Pole? And that
Maitland, why did he not obey the only good sentiment with which his
compatriots are inspired, the aversion to negro blood, an aversion which
would prevent them from doing what he has done--from marrying an
octoroon? If the young woman knows of it, it is terrible, and if she does
not it is still more terrible. And Madame Gorka, that honest creature,
for I believe she is, and truly pious as well, who has not observed for
the past two years that her husband was the Countess's lover, and who
does not see, moreover, that it is now Maitland's turn. And that poor
Alba Steno, that child of twenty, whom they drag through these improper
intrigues! Why does not Florent Chapron put an end to the adultery of her
sister's husband? I know him. He once came to see me with regard to a
monument he was raising in Saint-Louis in memory of his cousin. He
respects the dead, that pleased me. But he is a dupe in t