“The Count de Mussidan,” stuttered Mascarin; “and I hope that you will forgive this intrusion.”

The Count cut his excuse short with a haughty wave of his hand.  “Wait,” said he imperiously.  He then with evident pain rose from his seat, and crossing the room, rang the bell violently, and then reseated himself.  Mascarin, who still remained in the centre of the room, inwardly wondered if after all he was to be turned out of the house.  In another second the door opened, and the figure of the faithful Florestan appeared.

“Florestan,” said the Count, angrily, “this is the first time that you have permitted any one to enter this room without my permission; if this occurs again, you leave my service.”

“I assure your lordship,” began the man.

“Enough!  I have spoken; you know what to expect.”

During this brief colloquy, Mascarin studied the Count with the deepest attention.

The Count Octave de Mussidan in no way resembled the man sketched by Florestan.  Since the time of Montaigne, a servant’s portrait of his employer should always be distrusted.  The Count looked fully sixty, though he was but fifty years of age; he was undersized, and he looked shrunk and shrivelled; he was nearly bald, and his long whiskers were perfectly white.  The cares of life had imprinted deep furrows on his brow, and told too plainly the story of a man who, having drained the chalice of life to the bottom, was now ready to shiver the goblet.  As Florestan left the room the Count turned to Mascarin, and in the same glacial tone observed, “And now, sir, explain this intrusion.”

Mascarin had often been rebuffed, but never so cruelly as this.  His vanity was sorely wounded, for he was vain, as all are who think that they possess some hidden influence, and he felt his temper giving way.

“Pompous idiot!” thought he; “we will see how he looks in a short time;” but his face did not betray this, and his manner remained cringing and obsequious.  “You have heard my name, my lord, and I am a general business agent.”

The Count was deceived by the honest accents which long practice had taught Mascarin to use, and he had neither a suspicion nor a presentiment.

“Ah!” said he majestically, “a business agent, are you?  I presume you come on behalf of one of my creditors.  Well, sir, as I have before told these people, your errand is a futile one.  Why do they worry me when I unhesitatingly pay the extravagant interest they are pleased to demand?  They know that they are all knaves.  They are aware that I am rich, for I have inherited a great fortune, which is certainly without encumbrance; for though I could raise a million to-morrow upon my estates in Poitiers, I have up to this time not chosen to do so.”

Mascarin had at length so recovered his self-command that he listened to this speech without a word, hoping to gain some information from it.

“You may tell this,” continued the Count, “to those by whom you are employed.”