“Ah! you know the Abbe Frayssinous?” asked the count.

“He is under obligations to my father,” answered Oscar.

“Are you on your way to your estate?” asked Georges.

“No, monsieur; but I am able to say where I am going, if others are not.  I am going to the Chateau de Presles, to the Comte de Serizy.”

“The devil! are you going to Presles?” cried Schinner, turning as red as a cherry.

“So you know his Excellency the Comte de Serizy?” said Georges.

Pere Leger turned round to look at Oscar with a stupefied air.

“Is Monsieur de Serizy at Presles?” he said.

“Apparently, as I am going there,” replied Oscar.

“Do you often see the count,” asked Monsieur de Serizy.

“Often,” replied Oscar.  “I am a comrade of his son, who is about my age, nineteen; we ride together on horseback nearly every day.”

“‘Aut Caesar, aut Serizy,’” said Mistigris, sententiously.

Pierrotin and Pere Leger exchanged winks on hearing this statement.

“Really,” said the count to Oscar, “I am delighted to meet with a young man who can tell me about that personage.  I want his influence on a rather serious matter, although it would cost him nothing to oblige me.  It concerns a claim I wish to press on the American government.  I should be glad to obtain information about Monsieur de Serizy.”

“Oh! if you want to succeed,” replied Oscar, with a knowing look, “don’t go to him, but go to his wife; he is madly in love with her; no one knows more than I do about that; but she can’t endure him.”

“Why not?” said Georges.

“The count has a skin disease which makes him hideous.  Doctor Albert has tried in vain to cure it.  The count would give half his fortune if he had a chest like mine,” said Oscar, swelling himself out.  “He lives a lonely life in his own house; gets up very early in the morning and works from three to eight o’clock; after eight 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.”