When this assembled party saw the Count appear in full court costume, Georges Marest had a spasm in the stomach, and Joseph Bridau felt a qualm; but Mistigris, who was himself in his Sunday clothes, and who indeed had no crime on his conscience, said loud enough to be heard:
“Well, he looks much nicer now.”
“You little rascal,” said the Count, drawing him towards him by one ear, “so we both deal in decorations!—Do you recognize your work, my dear Schinner?” he went on, pointing to the ceiling.
“Monseigneur,” said the artist, “I was so foolish as to assume so famous a name out of bravado; but today’s experience makes it incumbent on me to do something good and win glory for that of Joseph Bridau.”
“You took my part,” said the Count eagerly, “and I hope you will do me the pleasure of dining with me—you and your witty Mistigris.”
“You do not know what you are exposing yourself to,” said the audacious youngster; “an empty stomach knows no peers.”
“Bridau,” said the Count, struck by a sudden reminiscence, “are you related to one of the greatest workers under the Empire, a brigadier in command who died a victim to his zeal?”
“I am his son, monseigneur,” said Joseph, bowing.
“Then you are welcome here,” replied the Count, taking the artist’s hand in both his own; “I knew your father, and you may depend on me as on—an American uncle,” said Monsieur de Sérizy, smiling. “But you are too young to have a pupil—to whom does Mistigris belong?”
“To my friend Schinner, who has lent him to me,” replied Joseph. “Mistigris’ name is Léon de Lora. Monseigneur, if you remember my father, will you condescend to bear in mind his other son, who stands accused of conspiring against the State, and is on his trial before the Supreme Court—”
“To be sure,” said the Count. “I will bear it in mind, believe me.—As to Prince Czerni-Georges, Ali Pasha’s ally, and Mina’s aide-de-camp—” said the Count, turning to Georges.
“He?—my second clerk?” cried Crottat.
“You are under a mistake, Maître Crottat,” said Monsieur de Sérizy, very severely. “A clerk who hopes ever to become a notary does not leave important documents in a diligence at the mercy of his fellow-travelers! A clerk who hopes to become a notary does not spend twenty francs between Paris and Moisselles! A clerk who hopes to become a notary does not expose himself to arrest as a deserter—”
“Monseigneur,” said Georges Marest, “I may have amused myself by playing a practical joke on a party of travelers, but—”
“Do not interrupt his Excellency,” said his master, giving him a violent nudge in the ribs.
“A notary ought to develop early the gifts of discretion, prudence, and discernment, and not mistake a Minister of State for a candlemaker.”
“I accept sentence for my errors,” said Georges, “but I did not leave my papers at the mercy—”
“You are at this moment committing the error of giving the lie to a Minister of State, a peer of France, a gentleman, an old man—and a client.—Look for your deed of sale.”
The clerk turned over the papers in his portfolio.
“Do not make a mess of your papers,” said the Count, taking the document out of his pocket. “Here is the deed you are seeking.”
Crottat turned it over three times, so much was he amazed at receiving it from the hands of his noble client.
“What, sir!”—he at last began, addressing Georges.
“If I had not taken it,” the Count went on, “Père Léger—who is not such a fool as you fancy him from his questions as to agriculture, since they might have taught you that a man should always be thinking of his business—Père Léger might have got hold of it and discovered my plans.—You also will give me the pleasure of your company at dinner, but on condition of telling us the history of the Muslim’s execution at Smyrna, and of finishing the memoirs of some client which you read, no doubt, before publication.”
“A trouncing for bouncing,” said Léon de Lora, in a low voice to Joseph Bridau.
“Gentlemen,” said the Count to the notary from Beaumont, to Crottat, Margueron, and Reybert, “come into the other room. We will not sit down to dinner till we have concluded our bargain; for, as my friend Mistigris says, we must know when to creep silent.”
“Well, he is a thoroughly good fellow,” said Léon de Lora to Georges Marest.
“Yes; but if he is a good fellow, my governor is not, and he will request me to play my tricks elsewhere.”
“Well, you like traveling,” said Bridau.
“What a dressing that boy will get from Monsieur and Madame Moreau!” cried Léon de Lora.
“The little idiot!” said Georges. “But for him the Count would have thought it all very good fun. Well, well, it is a useful lesson, and if I am caught chattering in a coach again—”
“Oh, it is a stupid thing to do,” said Joseph Bridau.
“And vulgar too,” said Mistigris. “Keep your tongue to clean your teeth.”
While the business of the farm was being discussed between Monsieur Margueron and the Comte de Sérizy, with the assistance of three notaries, and in the presence of Monsieur de Reybert, Moreau was slowly making his way home. He went in without looking about him, and sat down on a sofa in the drawing-room, while Oscar Husson crept into a corner out of sight, so terrified was he by the steward’s white face.
“Well, my dear,” said Estelle, coming in, fairly tired out by all she had had to do, “what is the matter?”
“My dear, we are ruined, lost beyond redemption. I am no longer land-steward of Presles! The Count has withdrawn his confidence.”
“And what has caused—?”
“Old Léger, who was in Pierrotin’s chaise, let out all about the farm of les Moulineaux; but it is not that which
