Monsieur de Valois gathered the fruit of his misfortunes.  His place at table was laid in all the most distinguished houses in Alencon, and he was bidden to all soirees.  His talents as a card-player, a narrator, an amiable man of the highest breeding, were so well known and appreciated that parties would have seemed a failure if the dainty connoisseur was absent.  Masters of houses and their wives felt the need of his approving grimace.  When a young woman heard the chevalier say at a ball, “You are delightfully well-dressed!” she was more pleased at such praise than she would have been at mortifying a rival.  Monsieur de Valois was the only man who could perfectly pronounce certain phrases of the olden time.  The words, “my heart,” “my jewel,” “my little pet,” “my queen,” and the amorous diminutives of 1770, had a grace that was quite irresistible when they came from his lips.  In short, the chevalier had the privilege of superlatives.  His compliments, of which he was stingy, won the good graces of all the old women; he made himself agreeable to every one, even to the officials of the government, from whom he wanted nothing.  His behavior at cards had a lofty distinction which everybody noticed:  he never complained; he praised his adversaries when they lost; he did not rebuke or teach his partners by showing them how they ought to have played.  When, in the course of a deal, those sickening dissertations on the game would take place, the chevalier invariably drew out his snuff-box with a gesture that was worthy of Mole, looked at the Princess Goritza, raised the cover with dignity, shook, sifted, massed the snuff, and gathered his pinch, so that by the time the cards were dealt he had decorated both nostrils and replaced the princess in his waistcoat pocket,—­always on his left side.  A gentleman of the “good” century (in distinction from the “grand” century) could alone have invented that compromise between contemptuous silence and a sarcasm which might not have been understood.  He accepted poor players and knew how to make the best of them.  His delightful equability of temper made many persons say,—­

“I do admire the Chevalier de Valois!”

His conversation, his manners, seemed bland, like his person.  He endeavored to shock neither man nor woman.  Indulgent to defects both physical and mental, he listened patiently (by the help of the Princess Goritza) to the many dull people who related to him the petty miseries of provincial life,—­an egg ill-boiled for breakfast, coffee with feathered cream, burlesque details about health, disturbed sleep, dreams, visits.  The chevalier could call up a languishing look, he could take on a classic attitude to feign compassion, which made him a most valuable listener; he could put in an “Ah!” and a “Bah!” and a “What did you do?” with charming appropriateness.  He died without any one suspecting him of even an allusion to the tender passages of his romance with the Princess Goritza.  Has any one ever reflected on the service a dead sentiment can do to society; how love may become both social and useful?  This will serve to explain why, in spite of his constant winning at play (he never left a salon without carrying off with him about six francs), the old chevalier remained the spoilt darling of the town.  His losses—­which, by the bye, he always proclaimed, were very rare.