“I am really very much obliged to you, my dear fellow,” said the Count de la Tour d’Auvergne, “for a piece of politeness thoroughly Italian, of which, however, I do not feel worthy; at least, I hope it’s meant as politeness and not as a sign of contempt.”

At these dreadful words I stretched out my hand and felt the sleeve of his coat.  Presence of mind was no good in a situation like this, when his words were followed by a peal of loud laughter which would have confounded the hardiest spirit.  As for me, I could neither join in his laughter nor deny his accusation; the situation was a fearful one, or would have been if the friendly shades of night had not covered my confusion.  Babet did her best to find out from the count why he laughed so much, but he could not tell her for laughing, for which I gave thanks with all my heart.  At last the carriage stopped at my house, and as soon as my servant had opened the door of my carriage I got down as fast as I could, and wished them good night—­a compliment which Tour d’Auvergne returned with fresh peals of laughter.  I entered my house in a state of stupefaction, and half an hour elapsed before I, too, began to laugh at the adventure.  What vexed me most was the expectation of having malicious jests passed upon me, for I had not the least right to reckon on the count’s discretion.  However, I had enough sense to determine to join in the laughter if I could, and if not, to take it well, for this is, and always will be, the best way to get the laughers on one’s own side at Paris.

For three days I saw nothing of the delightful count, and on the fourth I resolved to ask him to take breakfast with me, as Camille had sent to my house to enquire how I was.  My adventure would not prevent me visiting her house, but I was anxious to know how it had been taken.

As soon as Tour d’Auvergne saw me he began to roar with laughter, and I joined in, and we greeted each other in the friendliest manner possible.  “My dear count,” said I, “let us forget this foolish story.  You have no business to attack me, as I do not know how to defend myself.”

“Why should you defend yourself, my dear fellow.  We like you all the better for it, and this humorous adventure makes us merry every evening.”

“Everybody knows it, then?”

“Of course, why not?  It makes Camille choke with laughter.  Come this evening; I will bring Babet, and she will amuse you as she maintains that you were not mistaken.”

“She is right.”

“Eh? what?  You do me too much honour, and I don’t believe you; but have it as you like.”

“I can’t do better, but I must confess when all’s said that you were not the person to whom my fevered imagination offered such ardent homage.”

At supper I jested, pretended to be astonished at the count’s indiscretion, and boasted of being cured of my passion.  Babet called me a villain, and maintained that I was far from cured; but she was wrong, as the incident had disgusted me with her, and had attached me to the count, who, indeed, was a man of the most amiable character.  Nevertheless, our friendship might have been a fatal one, as the reader will see presently.