A Start in Life [39]
he takes his remedies,
--sulphur-baths, steam-baths, and such things. His valet bakes him in
a sort of iron box--for he is always in hopes of getting cured."
"If he is such a friend of the King as they say he is, why doesn't he
get his Majesty to touch him?" asked Georges.
"The count has lately promised thirty thousand francs to a celebrated
Scotch doctor who is coming over to treat him," continued Oscar.
"Then his wife can't be blamed if she finds better--" said Schinner,
but he did not finish his sentence.
"I should say so!" resumed Oscar. "The poor man is so shrivelled and
old you would take him for eighty! He's as dry as parchment, and,
unluckily for him, he feels his position."
"Most men would," said Pere Leger.
"He adores his wife and dares not find fault with her," pursued Oscar,
rejoicing to have found a topic to which they listened. "He plays
scenes with her which would make you die of laughing,--exactly like
Arnolphe in Moliere's comedy."
The count, horror-stricken, looked at Pierrotin, who, finding that the
count said nothing, concluded that Madame Clapart's son was telling
falsehoods.
"So, monsieur," continued Oscar, "if you want the count's influence, I
advise you to apply to the Marquis d'Aiglemont. If you get that former
adorer of Madame de Serizy on your side, you will win husband and wife
at one stroke."
"Look here!" said the painter, "you seem to have seen the count
without his clothes; are you his valet?"
"His valet!" cried Oscar.
"Hang it! people don't tell such things about their friends in public
conveyances," exclaimed Mistigris. "As for me, I'm not listening to
you; I'm deaf: 'discretion plays the better part of adder.'"
"'A poet is nasty and not fit,' and so is a tale-bearer," cried
Schinner.
"Great painter," said Georges, sententiously, "learn this: you can't
say harm of people you don't know. Now the little one here has proved,
indubitably, that he knows his Serizy by heart. If he had told us
about the countess, perhaps--?"
"Stop! not a word about the Comtesse de Serizy, young men," cried the
count. "I am a friend of her brother, the Marquis de Ronquerolles, and
whoever attempts to speak disparagingly of the countess must answer to
me."
"Monsieur is right," cried the painter; "no man should blaguer women."
"God, Honor, and the Ladies! I believe in that melodrama," said
Mistigris.
"I don't know the guerrilla chieftain, Mina, but I know the Keeper of
the Seals," continued the count, looking at Georges; "and though I
don't wear my decorations," he added, looking at the painter, "I
prevent those who do not deserve them from obtaining any. And finally,
let me say that I know so many persons that I even know Monsieur
Grindot, the architect of Presles. Pierrotin, stop at the next inn; I
want to get out a moment."
Pierrotin hurried his horses through the village street of Moisselles,
at the end of which was the inn where all travellers stopped. This
short distance was done in silence.
"Where is that young fool going?" asked the count, drawing Pierrotin
into the inn-yard.
"To your steward. He is the son of a poor lady who lives in the rue de
la Cerisaie, to whom I often carry fruit, and game, and poultry from
Presles. She is a Madame Husson."
"Who is that man?" inquired Pere Leger of Pierrotin when the count had
left him.
"Faith, I don't know," replied Pierrotin; "this is the first time I
have driven him. I shouldn't be surprised if he was that prince who
owns Maffliers. He has just told me to leave him on the road near
there; he doesn't want to go on to Isle-Adam."
"Pierrotin thinks he is the master of Maffliers," said Pere Leger,
addressing Georges when he got back into the coach.
The three young fellows were now as dull as thieves caught in the act;
they dared not look at each other, and were evidently considering
--sulphur-baths, steam-baths, and such things. His valet bakes him in
a sort of iron box--for he is always in hopes of getting cured."
"If he is such a friend of the King as they say he is, why doesn't he
get his Majesty to touch him?" asked Georges.
"The count has lately promised thirty thousand francs to a celebrated
Scotch doctor who is coming over to treat him," continued Oscar.
"Then his wife can't be blamed if she finds better--" said Schinner,
but he did not finish his sentence.
"I should say so!" resumed Oscar. "The poor man is so shrivelled and
old you would take him for eighty! He's as dry as parchment, and,
unluckily for him, he feels his position."
"Most men would," said Pere Leger.
"He adores his wife and dares not find fault with her," pursued Oscar,
rejoicing to have found a topic to which they listened. "He plays
scenes with her which would make you die of laughing,--exactly like
Arnolphe in Moliere's comedy."
The count, horror-stricken, looked at Pierrotin, who, finding that the
count said nothing, concluded that Madame Clapart's son was telling
falsehoods.
"So, monsieur," continued Oscar, "if you want the count's influence, I
advise you to apply to the Marquis d'Aiglemont. If you get that former
adorer of Madame de Serizy on your side, you will win husband and wife
at one stroke."
"Look here!" said the painter, "you seem to have seen the count
without his clothes; are you his valet?"
"His valet!" cried Oscar.
"Hang it! people don't tell such things about their friends in public
conveyances," exclaimed Mistigris. "As for me, I'm not listening to
you; I'm deaf: 'discretion plays the better part of adder.'"
"'A poet is nasty and not fit,' and so is a tale-bearer," cried
Schinner.
"Great painter," said Georges, sententiously, "learn this: you can't
say harm of people you don't know. Now the little one here has proved,
indubitably, that he knows his Serizy by heart. If he had told us
about the countess, perhaps--?"
"Stop! not a word about the Comtesse de Serizy, young men," cried the
count. "I am a friend of her brother, the Marquis de Ronquerolles, and
whoever attempts to speak disparagingly of the countess must answer to
me."
"Monsieur is right," cried the painter; "no man should blaguer women."
"God, Honor, and the Ladies! I believe in that melodrama," said
Mistigris.
"I don't know the guerrilla chieftain, Mina, but I know the Keeper of
the Seals," continued the count, looking at Georges; "and though I
don't wear my decorations," he added, looking at the painter, "I
prevent those who do not deserve them from obtaining any. And finally,
let me say that I know so many persons that I even know Monsieur
Grindot, the architect of Presles. Pierrotin, stop at the next inn; I
want to get out a moment."
Pierrotin hurried his horses through the village street of Moisselles,
at the end of which was the inn where all travellers stopped. This
short distance was done in silence.
"Where is that young fool going?" asked the count, drawing Pierrotin
into the inn-yard.
"To your steward. He is the son of a poor lady who lives in the rue de
la Cerisaie, to whom I often carry fruit, and game, and poultry from
Presles. She is a Madame Husson."
"Who is that man?" inquired Pere Leger of Pierrotin when the count had
left him.
"Faith, I don't know," replied Pierrotin; "this is the first time I
have driven him. I shouldn't be surprised if he was that prince who
owns Maffliers. He has just told me to leave him on the road near
there; he doesn't want to go on to Isle-Adam."
"Pierrotin thinks he is the master of Maffliers," said Pere Leger,
addressing Georges when he got back into the coach.
The three young fellows were now as dull as thieves caught in the act;
they dared not look at each other, and were evidently considering