“Great painter,” said Georges, sententiously, “learn this: you can’t say harm of people you don’t know. Now the little one here has proved, indubitably, that he knows his Serizy by heart. If he had told us about the countess, perhaps--?” “Stop! not a word about the Comtesse de Serizy, young men,” cried the count. “I am a friend of her brother, the Marquis de Ronquerolles, and whoever attempts to speak disparagingly of the countess must answer to me.” “Monsieur is right,” cried the painter; “no man should blaguer women.” “God, Honor, and the Ladies! I believe in that melodrama,” said Mistigris. “I don’t know the guerrilla chieftain, Mina, but I know the Keeper of the Seals,” continued the count, looking at Georges; “and though I don’t wear my decorations,” he added, looking at the painter, “I prevent those who do not deserve them from obtaining any. And finally, let me say that I know so many persons that I even know Monsieur Grindot, the architect of Presles. Pierrotin, stop at the next inn; I want to get out a moment.” Pierrotin hurried his horses through the village street of Moisselles, at the end of which was the inn where all travellers stopped. This short distance was done in silence. “Where is that young fool going?” asked the count, drawing Pierrotin into the inn-yard. “To your steward. He is the son of a poor lady who lives in the rue de la Cerisaie, to whom I often carry fruit, and game, and poultry from Presles. She is a Madame Husson.” “Who is that man?” inquired Pere Leger of Pierrotin when the count had left him. “Faith, I don’t know,” replied Pierrotin; “this is the first time I have driven him. I shouldn’t be surprised if he was that prince who owns Maffliers. He has just told me to leave him on the road near there; he doesn’t want to go on to Isle-Adam.” “Pierrotin thinks he is the master of Maffliers,” said Pere Leger, addressing Georges when he got back into the coach. The three young fellows were now as dull as thieves caught in the act; they dared not look at each other, and were evidently considering the consequences of their fibs. “This is what is called ‘suffering for license sake,’” said Mistigris. “You see I did know the count,” said Oscar. “Possibly. But you’ll never be an ambassador,” replied Georges. “When people want to talk in public conveyances, they ought to be careful, like me, to talk without saying anything.” “That’s what speech is for,” remarked Mistigris, by way of conclusion. The count returned to his seat and the coucou rolled on amid the deepest silence. “Well, my friends,” said the count, when they reached the Carreau woods, “here we all are, as silent as if we were going to the scaffold.” “‘Silence gives content,’” muttered Mistigris. “The weather is fine,” said Georges. “What place is that?” said Oscar, pointing to the chateau de Franconville, which produces a fine effect at that particular spot, backed, as it is, by the noble forest of Saint-Martin.