“Ah, you see,” said M. Barreau, who rejoiced to hear this story, “you see what it is to serve in the house of a grand seigneur.  But parvenus are parvenus—­what will you have?”

“And that is all Jansoulet is,” added M. Francis, tugging at his cuffs.  “A man who used to be a street porter at Marseilles.”

M. Noel took offence at this.

“Hey, down there, old Francis, you are very glad all the same to have him to pay your card-debts, the street porter of La Cannebriere.  You may well be embarrassed by parvenus like us who lend millions to kings, and whom grand seigneurs like Mora do not blush to admit to their tables.”

“Oh, in the country,” chuckled M. Francis, with a sneer that showed his old tooth.

The other rose, quite red in the face.  He was about to give way to his anger when M. Louis made a gesture with his hand to signify that he had something to say, and M. Noel sat down immediately, putting his hand to his ear like all the rest of us in order to lose nothing that fell from those august lips.

“It is true,” remarked the personage, speaking with the slightest possible movement of his mouth and continuing to take his wine in little sips, “it is true that we received the Nabob at Grandbois the other week.  There even happened something very funny on the occasion.  We have a quantity of mushrooms in the second park, and his excellency amuses himself sometimes by gathering them.  Now at dinner was served a large dish of fungi.  There were present, what’s his name—­I forget, what is it?—­Marigny, the Minister of the Interior, Monpavon, and your master, my dear Noel.  The mushrooms went the round of the table, they looked nice, the gentlemen helped themselves freely, except M. le Duc, who cannot digest them and out of politeness feels it his duty to remark to his guests:  ’Oh, you know, it is not that I am suspicious of them.  They are perfectly safe.  It was I myself who gathered them.’

“‘Sapristi!’ said Monpavon, laughing, ’then, my dear Auguste, allow me to be excused from tasting them.’  Marigny, less familiar, glanced at his plate out of the corner of his eye.

“’But, yes, Monpavon, I assure you.  They look extremely good, these mushrooms.  I am truly sorry that I have no appetite left.’

“The duke remained very serious.

“’Come, M. Jansoulet, I sincerely hope that you are not going to offer me this affront, you also.  Mushrooms selected by myself.’

“’Oh, Excellency, the very idea of such a thing!  Why, I would eat them with my eyes closed.’