“You must tell that to the marines!” said Lousteau.  “It needs their robust faith to swallow it!  Can you tell me which told the tale, the dead man or the Spaniard?”

“Monsieur,” replied the Receiver-General, “I nursed poor Bega, who died five days after in dreadful suffering.—­That is not the end.

“At the time of the expedition sent out to restore Ferdinand VII.  I was appointed to a place in Spain; but, happily for me, I got no further than Tours when I was promised the post of Receiver here at Sancerre.  On the eve of setting out I was at a ball at Madame de Listomere’s, where we were to meet several Spaniards of high rank.  On rising from the card-table, I saw a Spanish grandee, an afrancesado in exile, who had been about a fortnight in Touraine.  He had arrived very late at this ball—­his first appearance in society—­accompanied by his wife, whose right arm was perfectly motionless.  Everybody made way in silence for this couple, whom we all watched with some excitement.  Imagine a picture by Murillo come to life.  Under black and hollow brows the man’s eyes were like a fixed blaze; his face looked dried up, his bald skull was red, and his frame was a terror to behold, he was so emaciated.  His wife—­no, you cannot imagine her.  Her figure had the supple swing for which the Spaniards created the word meneho; though pale, she was still beautiful; her complexion was dazzlingly fair—­a rare thing in a Spaniard; and her gaze, full of the Spanish sun, fell on you like a stream of melted lead.

“‘Madame,’ said I to her, towards the end of the evening, ’what occurrence led to the loss of your arm?’

“‘I lost it in the war of independence,’ said she.”

“Spain is a strange country,” said Madame de la Baudraye.  “It still shows traces of Arab manners.”

“Oh!” said the journalist, laughing, “the mania for cutting off arms is an old one there.  It turns up every now and then like some of our newspaper hoaxes, for the subject has given plots for plays on the Spanish stage so early as 1570—­”

“Then do you think me capable of inventing such a story?” said Monsieur Gravier, nettled by Lousteau’s impertinent tone.

“Quite incapable of such a thing,” said the journalist with grave irony.

“Pooh!” said Bianchon, “the inventions of romances and play-writers are quite as often transferred from their books and pieces into real life, as the events of real life are made use of on the stage or adapted to a tale.  I have seen the comedy of Tartufe played out —­with the exception of the close; Orgon’s eyes could not be opened to the truth.”

“And the tragi-comedy of Adolphe by Benjamin Constant is constantly enacted,” cried Lousteau.

“And do you suppose,” asked Madame de la Baudraye, “that such adventures as Monsieur Gravier has related could ever occur now, and in France?”