“What sacrifices?” demanded Mistigris. “Don’t you know, my little friend, that a ceiling painted by so great a master as yours is worth its weight in gold?” replied the count. “If the civil list paid you, as it did, thirty thousand francs for each of those rooms in the Louvre,” he continued, addressing Schinner, “a bourgeois,--as you call us in the studios--ought certainly to pay you twenty thousand. Whereas, if you go to this chateau as a humble decorator, you will not get two thousand.” “The money is not the greatest loss,” said Mistigris. “The work is sure to be a masterpiece, but he can’t sign it, you know, for fear of compromising _her_.” “Ah! I’d return all my crosses to the sovereigns who gave them to me for the devotion that youth can win,” said the count. “That’s just it!” said Mistigris, “when one’s young, one’s loved; plenty of love, plenty of women; but they do say: ‘Where there’s wife, there’s mope.’” “What does Madame Schinner say to all this?” pursued the count; “for I believe you married, out of love, the beautiful Adelaide de Rouville, the protegee of old Admiral de Kergarouet; who, by the bye, obtained for you the order for the Louvre ceilings through his nephew, the Comte de Fontaine.” “A great painter is never married when he travels,” said Mistigris. “So that’s the morality of studios, is it?” cried the count, with an air of great simplicity. “Is the morality of courts where you got those decorations of yours any better?” said Schinner, recovering his self-possession, upset for the moment by finding out how much the count knew of Schinner’s life as an artist. “I never asked for any of my orders,” said the count. “I believe I have loyally earned them.” “‘A fair yield and no flavor,’” said Mistigris. The count was resolved not to betray himself; he assumed an air of good-humored interest in the country, and looked up the valley of Groslay as the coucou took the road to Saint-Brice, leaving that to Chantilly on the right. “Is Rome as fine as they say it is?” said Georges, addressing the great painter. “Rome is fine only to those who love it; a man must have a passion for it to enjoy it. As a city, I prefer Venice,--though I just missed being murdered there.” “Faith, yes!” cried Mistigris; “if it hadn’t been for me you’d have been gobbled up. It was that mischief-making tom-fool, Lord Byron, who got you into the scrape. Oh! wasn’t he raging, that buffoon of an Englishman?” “Hush!” said Schinner. “I don’t want my affair with Lord Byron talked about.” “But you must own, all the same, that you were glad enough I knew how to box,” said Mistigris. From time to time, Pierrotin exchanged sly glances with the count, which might have made less inexperienced persons than the five other travellers uneasy. “Lords, pachas, and thirty-thousand-franc ceilings!” he cried. “I seem to be driving sovereigns. What pourboires I’ll get!” “And all the places paid for!” said Mistigris, slyly.