“Often,” replied Oscar. “I am a comrade of his son, who is about my age, nineteen; we ride together on horseback nearly every day.” “‘Aut Caesar, aut Serizy,’” said Mistigris, sententiously. Pierrotin and Pere Leger exchanged winks on hearing this statement. “Really,” said the count to Oscar, “I am delighted to meet with a young man who can tell me about that personage. I want his influence on a rather serious matter, although it would cost him nothing to oblige me. It concerns a claim I wish to press on the American government. I should be glad to obtain information about Monsieur de Serizy.” “Oh! if you want to succeed,” replied Oscar, with a knowing look, “don’t go to him, but go to his wife; he is madly in love with her; no one knows more than I do about that; but she can’t endure him.” “Why not?” said Georges. “The count has a skin disease which makes him hideous. Doctor Albert has tried in vain to cure it. The count would give half his fortune if he had a chest like mine,” said Oscar, swelling himself out. “He lives a lonely life in his own house; gets up very early in the morning and works from three to eight o’clock; after eight he takes his remedies,--sulphur-baths, steam-baths, and such things. His valet bakes him in a sort of iron box--for he is always in hopes of getting cured.” “If he is such a friend of the King as they say he is, why doesn’t he get his Majesty to touch him?” asked Georges. “The count has lately promised thirty thousand francs to a celebrated Scotch doctor who is coming over to treat him,” continued Oscar. “Then his wife can’t be blamed if she finds better--” said Schinner, but he did not finish his sentence. “I should say so!” resumed Oscar. “The poor man is so shrivelled and old you would take him for eighty! He’s as dry as parchment, and, unluckily for him, he feels his position.” “Most men would,” said Pere Leger. “He adores his wife and dares not find fault with her,” pursued Oscar, rejoicing to have found a topic to which they listened. “He plays scenes with her which would make you die of laughing,--exactly like Arnolphe in Moliere’s comedy.” The count, horror-stricken, looked at Pierrotin, who, finding that the count said nothing, concluded that Madame Clapart’s son was telling falsehoods. “So, monsieur,” continued Oscar, “if you want the count’s influence, I advise you to apply to the Marquis d’Aiglemont. If you get that former adorer of Madame de Serizy on your side, you will win husband and wife at one stroke.” “Look here!” said the painter, “you seem to have seen the count without his clothes; are you his valet?” “His valet!” cried Oscar. “Hang it! people don’t tell such things about their friends in public conveyances,” exclaimed Mistigris. “As for me, I’m not listening to you; I’m deaf: ‘discretion plays the better part of adder.’” “‘A poet is nasty and not fit,’ and so is a tale-bearer,” cried Schinner.