“He is under obligations to my father,” replied Oscar.
“And you are on your way to your estates no doubt?” said Georges.
“No, monsieur; but I have no objection to saying where I am going. I am on my way to the château of Presles, the Comte de Sérizy’s.”
“The devil you are! To Presles?” cried Shinner, turning crimson.
“Then you know Monseigneur the Comte de Sérizy?” asked Georges.
Farmer Léger turned so as to look at Oscar with a bewildered gaze, exclaiming:
“And Monsieur le Comte is at Presles?”
“So it would seem, as I am going there,” replied Oscar.
“Then you have often seen the Count?” asked Monsieur de Sérizy.
“As plainly as I see you. I am great friends with his son, who is about my age, nineteen; and we ride together almost every day.”
“Kings have been known to harry beggar-maids,” said Mistigris sapiently.
A wink from Pierrotin had relieved the farmer’s alarm.
“On my honor,” said the Count to Oscar, “I am delighted to find myself in the company of a young gentleman who can speak with authority of that nobleman. I am anxious to secure his favor in a somewhat important business in which his help will cost him nothing. It is a little claim against the American Government. I should be glad to learn something as to the sort of man he is.”
“Oh, if you hope to succeed,” replied Oscar, with an assumption of competence, “do not apply to him, but to his wife; he is madly in love with her, no one knows that better than I, and his wife cannot endure him.”
“Why,” asked Georges.
“The Count has some skin disease that makes him hideous, and Doctor Alibert has tried in vain to cure it. Monsieur de Sérizy would give half of his immense fortune to have a chest like mine,” said Oscar, opening his shirt and showing a clean pink skin like a child’s. “He lives alone, secluded in his house. You need a good introduction to see him at all. In the first place, he gets up very early in the morning, and works from three till eight, after eight he follows various treatments, sulphur baths or vapor baths. They stew him in a sort of iron tank, for he is always hoping to be cured.”
“If he is so intimate with the King, why is he not ‘touched’ by him?” asked Georges.
“Then the lady keeps her husband in hot water,” said Mistigris.
“The Count has promised thirty thousand francs to a famous Scotch physician who is prescribing for him now,” Oscar went on.
“Then his wife can hardly be blamed for giving herself the best—” Schinner began, but he did not finish his sentence.
“To be sure,” said Oscar. “The poor man is so shriveled up, so decrepit, you would think he was eighty. He is as dry as parchment, and to add to his misfortune, he feels his position—”
“And feels it hot, I should think,” remarked the farmer facetiously.
“Monsieur, he worships his wife, and dares not blame her,” replied Oscar. “He performs the most ridiculous scenes with her, you would die of laughing—exactly like Arnolphe in Molière’s play.”
The Count, in blank dismay, looked at Pierrotin, who seeing him apparently unmoved, concluded that Madame Clapart’s son was inventing a pack of slander.
“So, monsieur, if you wish to succeed,” said Oscar to the Count, “apply to the Marquis d’Aiglemont. If you have madame’s venerable adorer on your side, you will at one stroke secure both the lady and her husband.”
“That is what we call killing two-thirds with one bone,” said Mistigris.
“Dear me!” said the painter, “have you seen the Count undressed? Are you his valet?”
“His valet!” cried Oscar.
“By the Mass! A man does not say such things about his friends in a public conveyance,” added Mistigris. “Discretion, my young friend, is the mother of inattention. I simply don’t hear you.”
“It is certainly a case of tell me whom you know, and I will tell you whom you hate,” exclaimed Schinner.
“But you must learn, Great Painter,” said Georges pompously, “that no man can speak ill of those he does not know. The boy has proved at any rate that he knows his Sérizy by heart. Now, if he had only talked of Madame, it might have been supposed that he was on terms—”
“Not another word about the Comtesse de Sérizy, young men!” cried the Count. “Her brother, the Marquis de Ronquerolles, is a friend of mine, and the man who is so rash as to cast a doubt on the Countess’ honor will answer to me for his speech.”
“Monsieur is right,” said the artist, “there should be no humbug about women.”
“God, Honor, and the Ladies! I saw a melodrama of that name,” said Mistigris.
“Though I do not know Mina, I know the Keeper of the Seals,” said the Count, looking at Georges. “And though I do not display my Orders,” he added, turning to the painter, “I can hinder their being given to those who do not deserve them. In short, I know so many people, that I know Monsieur Grindot, the architect of Presles.—Stop, Pierrotin; I am going to get out.”
Pierrotin drove on to the village of Moisselles, and there, at a little country inn, the travelers alighted. This bit of road was passed in utter silence.
“Where on earth is that little rascal going?” asked the Count, leading Pierrotin into the inn-yard.
“To stay with your steward. He is the son of a poor lady who lives in the Rue de la Cerisaie, and to whom I often carry fruit and game and poultry—a certain Madame Husson.”
“Who is that gentleman?” old Léger asked Pierrotin when the Count had turned away.
“I don’t know,” said Pierrotin. “He never rode with me before; but he may be the Prince who owns the château of Maffliers. He has just told me where to set him down on the road; he is not going so far as l’Isle-Adam.”
“Pierrotin fancies he is the owner of Maffliers,” said the farmer to Georges, getting back into the chaise.
At