Our poor young baron blushed painfully as he caught sight of his own figure in one of the long mirrors—­his shabby, ill-fitting clothes looked so sadly out of place amidst all this magnificence—­and for the first time in his life he felt ashamed of his poverty.  Highly unphilosophical this, but surely excusable in so young a man as our hero.  With a natural desire to improve his forlorn appearance if he could, he unpacked the scanty supply of clothing that his faithful Pierre had put up for him—­hoping that he might come across something a little less thread-bare than the suit he actually had on his back—­but the inspection was not satisfactory, and he groaned as he discarded one faded, shabby garment after another.  The linen was not any better—­worn so that it was thin everywhere, with numerous darns and patches, and many holes, he could not find a single shirt that was whole and in good condition.  He was so absorbed in this melancholy inspection that he did not hear a low knock at the door, nor notice that it was slowly pushed open, having been already ajar, to admit the stout person of Blazius, who approached him with many bows and flourishes, though entirely unobserved.  When the pedant reached his side de Sigognac was just holding up before him a shirt that had as many openings as the rose window of a cathedral, and slowly shaking his head as he gazed at it, with an expression of utter discouragement.

“Body of Bacchus!” exclaimed the pedant—­his voice, so close at hand, startling the astonished baron, who had believed himself alone, and safe from intrusion—­“that shirt has verily a valiant and triumphant air.  It looks as if it had been worn by Mars himself in battle, so riddled has it been by lances, spears, darts, arrows, and I know not what besides.  Don’t be ashamed of it, Baron!—­these holes are honourable to you.  Many a shirt of fine linen, ruffled and embroidered, according to the latest fashion, disguises the graceless person of some rascally parvenu—­and usurer as well perhaps—­who usurps the place of his betters.  Several of the great heroes, of immortal fame, had not a shirt to their backs—­Ulysses, for example, that wise and valiant man, who presented himself before the beautiful Princess Nausicaa, with no other covering than a bunch of sea-weed—­as we are told, in the Odyssey, by the grand old bard, Homer.”

“Unfortunately,” de Sigognac replied, “there is no point of resemblance, my dear Blazius, between me and the brave King of Ithaca, save the lack of linen. I have done no deeds of valour to shed a lustre over my poverty.  I have had no chance to make myself famous, and I fear that the poets will never celebrate my praises in glowing hexameters.  But, jesting aside, I must confess that I do feel greatly annoyed at being forced to appear in this guise here.  The Marquis de Bruyeres recognised me, though he made no sign, and he may betray my secret.”