“It concerns every living soul,” replied the Count.
“Be easy.—Come, hurry up,” said Pierrotin, half opening the kitchen door, “we are late already. Listen, Père Léger, there is the hill before us, you know; I am not hungry; I will go on slowly, and you will easily catch me up.—A walk will do you good.”
“The man is in a devil of a hurry!” said the innkeeper. “Won’t you come and join us? The Colonel is standing wine at fifty sous, and a bottle of champagne.”
“No, I can’t. I have a fish on board to be delivered at Stors by three o’clock for a big dinner, and such customers don’t see a joke any more than the fish.”
“All right,” said Léger to the innkeeper; “put the horse you want me to buy in the shafts of your gig, and you can drive us on to pick up Pierrotin. Then we can breakfast in peace, and I shall see what the nag can do. Three of us can very well ride in your trap.”
To the Count’s great satisfaction, Pierrotin himself brought out his horses. Schinner and Mistigris had walked forward.
Pierrotin picked up the two artists halfway between Saint-Brice and Poncelles; and just as he reached the top of the hill, whence they had a view of Écouen, the belfry of le Mesnil, and the woods which encircle that beautiful landscape, the sound of a galloping horse drawing a gig that rattled and jingled announced the pursuit of Père Léger and Mina’s Colonel, who settled themselves into the chaise again.
As Pierrotin zigzagged down the hill into Moisselles, Georges, who had never ceased expatiating to old Léger on the beauty of the innkeeper’s wife at Saint-Brice, exclaimed:
“I say, this is not amiss by way of landscape, Great Painter?”
“It ought not to astonish you, who have seen Spain and the East.”
“And I have two of the Spanish cigars left. If nobody objects, will you finish them off, Schinner? The little man had enough with a mouthful or two.”
Old Léger and the Count kept silence, which was taken for consent.
Oscar, annoyed at being spoken of as “a little man,” retorted while the others were lighting their cigars:
“Though I have not been Mina’s aide-de-camp, monsieur, and have not been in the East, I may go there yet. The career for which my parents intend me will, I hope, relieve me of the necessity of riding in a public chaise when I am as old as you are. When once I am a person of importance, and get a place, I will stay in it—”
“Et cetera punctum!” said Mistigris, imitating the sort of hoarse crow which made Oscar’s speech even more ridiculous; for the poor boy was at the age when the beard begins to grow and the voice to break. “After all,” added Mistigris, “extremes bleat.”
“My word!” said Schinner, “the horses can scarcely drag such a weight of dignity.”
“So your parents intend to start you in a career,” said Georges very seriously. “And what may it be?”
“In diplomacy,” said Oscar.
Three shouts of laughter went forth like three rockets from Mistigris, Schinner, and the old farmer. Even the Count could not help smiling. Georges kept his countenance.
“By Allah! But there is nothing to laugh at,” said the Colonel. “Only, young man,” he went on, addressing Oscar, “it struck me that your respectable mother is not for the moment in a social position wholly beseeming an ambassadress.—She had a most venerable straw bag, and a patch on her shoe.”
“My mother, monsieur!” said Oscar, fuming with indignation. “It was our housekeeper.”
“ ‘Our’ is most aristocratic!” cried the Count, interrupting Oscar.
“The King says our,” replied Oscar haughtily.
A look from Georges checked a general burst of laughter; it conveyed to the painter and to Mistigris the desirability of dealing judiciously with Oscar, so as to make the most of this mine of amusement.
“The gentleman is right,” said the painter to the Count, designating Oscar. “Gentlefolks talk of our house; only second-rate people talk of my house. Everybody has a mania for seeming to have what he has not. For a man loaded with decorations—”
“Then monsieur also is a decorator?” asked Mistigris.
“You know nothing of Court language.—I beg the favor of your protection, your Excellency,” added Schinner, turning to Oscar.
“I must congratulate myself,” said the Count, “on having traveled with three men who are or will be famous—a painter who is already illustrious, a future general, and a young diplomatist who will some day reunite Belgium to France.”
But Oscar, having so basely denied his mother, and furious at perceiving that his companions were making game of him, determined to convince their incredulity at any cost.
“All is not gold that glitters!” said he, flashing lightnings from his eyes.
“You’ve got it wrong,” cried Mistigris. “All is not told that titters. You will not go far in diplomacy if you do not know your proverbs better than that.”
“If I do not know my proverbs, I know my way.”
“It must be leading you a long way,” said Georges, “for your family housekeeper gave you provisions enough for a sea voyage—biscuits, chocolate—”
“A particular roll and some chocolate, yes, monsieur,” returned Oscar. “My stomach is much too delicate to digest the cagmag you get at an inn.”
“ ‘Cagmag’ is as delicate as your digestion,” retorted Georges.
“ ‘Cagmag’ is good!” said the great painter.
“The word is in use in the best circles,” said Mistigris; “I use it myself at the coffeehouse of the Poule Noire.”
“Your tutor was, no doubt, some famous professor—Monsieur Andrieux of the Academy, or Monsieur Royer-Collard?” asked Schinner.
“My tutor was the Abbé Loraux, now the Vicar of St. Sulpice,” replied Oscar, remembering the name of the confessor of the school.
“You did very wisely to have a private tutor,” said Mistigris, “for the fountain—of learning—brought forth a mouse; and you will do something for your Abbé, of course?”
“Certainly; he will be a bishop some day.”
“Through your family interest?” asked Georges quite gravely.
“We may perhaps contribute to his due promotion, for the Abbé Frayssinous often comes to our house.”
“Oh,
