It is the next day after the marquis has returned to the Château de Flourens. It is three o'clock in the afternoon, and the marquis is discovered still in bed. His valet, August, an incomparable fellow, has been in and out a dozen times; has smoothed the marquis's clothes; has rearranged a freshly-powdered wig that hung as white as snow upon the block; has moved a chair here and a table there. But the Marquis de Flourens has paid no attention to him. He is reading the latest effusion of the immortal Jean Jacques; for one must keep up with the world, even if one is compelled to live in Flourens; moreover, as he often observes, a book suffices somewhat to relieve the ennui. The Marquis de Flourens looks very droll. He is clad in a loose dressing-robe of figured cloth, and lies in bed reading his book, with a chocolate-pot and a delicate cup, with the brown dregs at the bottom, upon a light table standing at the bedside. His knees are drawn up into a little white mountain, the lace pillows are tucked in billowy masses behind him, and his nightcap is pushed a little to one side, giving a glimpse of his shining, newly-shaven head; his round face, in contrast with the white pillows behind, as red as a newly-risen sun. The valet again enters the room, but this time with an object. He bears upon a silver tray a three-cornered billet and a snuffbox. The marquis lingeringly finishes the sentence he is reading, and then lays the book face down upon the bed beside him. "What is it you would have, August?" said he. "A lady, monseigneur, has just now stopped at the door in a coach." [Illustration: "HE IS CLAD IN A LOOSE DRESSING-ROBE OF FIGURED CLOTH, AND LIES IN BED READING HIS BOOK."] The marquis sat up as though moved by a spring. "A lady?" he cried. "Young, beautiful?" "No," said August, seriously; "old, fat." The marquis lay back upon the pillows again. "What is it that you have brought, August?" said he, languidly. August presented the waiter. "Oh!" said the marquis. "A letter; and what is that--a snuffbox?" He reached out and took Oliver's three-cornered billet from the waiter. "This is not a woman's handwriting," said he; "it is the handwriting of a man." August said nothing, and the marquis opened the letter. It ran as follows: "MONSEIGNEUR,--Having heard, monseigneur, that you have been interested in collecting odd and unique objects of curiosity and virtu, I have taken the great liberty of sending by madame my mother this insignificent trifle, which I hope, monseigneur, you will condescend to accept. "OLIVER DE MONNIÈRE." "M--m--m! What is it the fool is writing about? Curios? I making a collection of curios? I never collected anything in my life but debts. The man is crazy! Does he think that I am a snuffy collector of stuffy curios? Let me see the snuffbox, August." The incomparable valet presented the waiter.