“But poor Toby, now that his precise position in insular zoology had been called in question, found himself hopelessly out of place.  At that time Godefroid had blossomed out at the French Embassy in London, where he learned the adventures of Toby, Joby, Paddy.  Godefroid found the infant weeping over a pot of jam (he had already lost the guineas with which milord gilded his misfortune).  Godefroid took possession of him; and so it fell out that on his return among us he brought back with him the sweetest thing in tigers from England.  He was known by his tiger—­as Couture is known by his waistcoats—­and found no difficulty in entering the fraternity of the club yclept to-day the Grammont.  He had renounced the diplomatic career; he ceased accordingly to alarm the susceptibilites of the ambitious; and as he had no very dangerous amount of intellect, he was well looked upon everywhere.

“Some of us would feel mortified if we saw only smiling faces wherever we went; we enjoy the sour contortions of envy.  Godefroid did not like to be disliked.  Every one has his taste.  Now for the solid, practical aspects of life!

“The distinguishing feature of his chambers, where I have licked my lips over breakfast more than once, was a mysterious dressing-closet, nicely decorated, and comfortably appointed, with a grate in it and a bath-tub.  It gave upon a narrow staircase, the folding doors were noiseless, the locks well oiled, the hinges discreet, the window panes of frosted glass, the curtain impervious to light.  While the bedroom was, as it ought to have been, in a fine disorder which would suit the most exacting painter in water-colors; while everything therein was redolent of the Bohemian life of a young man of fashion, the dressing-closet was like a shrine—­white, spotless, neat, and warm.  There were no draughts from door or window, the carpet had been made soft for bare feet hastily put to the floor in a sudden panic of alarm —­which stamps him as your thoroughbred dandy that knows life; for here, in a few moments, he may show himself either a noodle or a master in those little details in which a man’s character is revealed.  The Marquise previously quoted—­no, it was the Marquise de Rochefide—­came out of that dressing-closet in a furious rage, and never went back again.  She discovered nothing ‘improper’ in it.  Godefroid used to keep a little cupboard full of——­”

“Waistcoats?” suggested Finot.

“Come, now, just like you, great Turcaret that you are. (I shall never form that fellow.) Why, no.  Full of cakes, and fruit, and dainty little flasks of Malaga and Lunel; an en cas de nuit in Louis Quatorze’s style; anything that can tickle the delicate and well-bred appetite of sixteen quarterings.  A knowing old man-servant, very strong in matters veterinary, waited on the horses and groomed Godefroid.  He had been with the late M. de Beaudenord, Godefroid’s father, and bore Godefroid an inveterate affection, a kind of heart complaint which has almost disappeared among domestic servants since savings banks were established.