“I am not a colonel,” replied Georges. “But isn’t your name Georges?” “What’s all this?” said the steward, intervening. “Monsieur, my name is Georges Marest; I am the son of a rich wholesale ironmonger in the rue Saint-Martin; I come on business to Monsieur le Comte de Serizy from Maitre Crottat, a notary, whose second clerk I am.” “And I,” said the girl, “am telling him that monseigneur said to me: ‘There’ll come a colonel named Czerni-Georges, aide-de-camp to Mina; he’ll come by Pierrotin’s coach; if he asks for me show him into the waiting-room.’” “Evidently,” said the clerk, “the count is a traveller who came down with us in Pierrotin’s coucou; if it hadn’t been for the politeness of a young man he’d have come as a rabbit.” “A rabbit! in Pierrotin’s coucou!” exclaimed Moreau and the poultry-girl together. “I am sure of it, from what this girl is now saying,” said Georges. “How so?” asked the steward. “Ah! that’s the point,” cried the clerk. “To hoax the travellers and have a bit of fun I told them a lot of stuff about Egypt and Greece and Spain. As I happened to be wearing spurs I have myself out for a colonel of cavalry: pure nonsense!” “Tell me,” said Moreau, “what did this traveller you take to be Monsieur le comte look like?” “Face like a brick,” said Georges, “hair snow-white, and black eyebrows.” “That is he!” “Then I’m lost!” exclaimed Georges. “Why?” “Oh, I chaffed him about his decorations.” “Pooh! he’s a good fellow; you probably amused him. Come at once to the chateau. I’ll go in and see his Excellency. Where did you say he left the coach?” “At the top of the mountain.” “I don’t know what to make of it!” “After all,” thought Georges, “though I did blague him, I didn’t say anything insulting.” “Why have you come here?” asked the steward. “I have brought the deed of sale for the farm at Moulineaux, all ready for signature.” “Good heavens!” exclaimed the steward, “I don’t understand one word of all this!” Moreau felt his heart beat painfully when, after giving two raps on his master’s door, he heard the words:-- “Is that you, _Monsieur_ Moreau?” “Yes, monseigneur.” “Come in.” The count was now wearing a pair of white trousers and thin boots, a white waistcoat and a black coat on which shone the grand cross of the Legion upon the right breast, and fastened to a buttonhole on the left was the order of the Golden Fleece hanging by a short gold chain. He had arranged his hair himself, and had, no doubt, put himself in full dress to do the honors of Presles to Monsieur Margueron; and, possibly, to impress the good man’s mind with a prestige of grandeur. “Well, monsieur,” said the count, who remained seated, leaving Moreau to stand before him. “We have not concluded that purchase from Margueron.” “He asks too much for the farm at the present moment.” “But why is he not coming to dinner as I requested?” “Monseigneur, he is ill.” “Are you sure?” “I have just come from there.”