“Yes, yes—­I remember him; but you are really too backbiting.”

“Not a bit—­I only speak the truth.  The colonel spent his whole time here, and every one said he was very warm with this same princess, who is now such a saint.  Oh! those were the jolly times.  Every evening, some new entertainment at the chateau.  What a fellow that colonel was, to set things going; how well he could act a play!—­I remember—­”

The bailiff was unable to proceed.  A stout maid-servant, wearing the costume and cap of Picardy, entered in haste, and thus addressed her mistress:  “Madame, there is a person here that wants to speak to master; he has come in the postmaster’s calash from Saint-Valery, and he says that he is M. Rodin.”

“M.  Rodin?” said the bailiff rising.  “Show him in directly!”

A moment after, M. Rodin made his appearance.  According to his custom, he was dressed even more than plainly.  With an air of great humility, he saluted the bailiff and his wife, and at a sign from her husband, the latter withdrew.  The cadaverous countenance of M. Rodin, his almost invisible lips, his little reptile eyes, half concealed by their flabby lids, and the sordid style of his dress, rendered his general aspect far from prepossessing; yet this man knew how, when it was necessary, to affect, with diabolical art, so much sincerity and good-nature—­his words were so affectionate and subtly penetrating—­that the disagreeable feeling of repugnance, which the first sight of him generally inspired, wore off little by little, and he almost always finished by involving his dupe or victim in the tortuous windings of an eloquence as pliant as it was honeyed and perfidious; for ugliness and evil have their fascination, as well as what is good and fair.

The honest bailiff looked at this man with surprise, when he thought of the pressing recommendation of the steward of the Princess de Saint Dizier; he had expected to see quite another sort of personage, and, hardly able to dissemble his astonishment, he said to him:  “Is it to M. Rodin that I have the honor to speak?”

“Yes, sir; and here is another letter from the steward of the Princess de Saint-Dizier.”

“Pray, sir, draw near the fire, whilst I just see what is in this letter.  The weather is so bad,” continued the bailiff, obligingly, “may I not offer you some refreshment?”

“A thousand thanks, my dear sir; I am off again in an hour.”

Whilst M. Dupont read, M. Rodin threw inquisitive glances round the chamber; like a man of skill and experience, he had frequently drawn just and useful inductions from those little appearances, which, revealing a taste or habit, give at the same time some notion of a character; on this occasion, however, his curiosity was at fault.

“Very good, sir,” said the bailiff, when he had finished reading; “the steward renews his recommendation, and tells me to attend implicitly to your commands.”