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 the consequences of their fibs.