"Oh, M. le Baron Sébastien du Pluvier," said the count, with a scornful and mocking air, "M. du Pluvier is I don't know who, and he comes from I don't know where; I was forced to be presented to him. He has disembarked from some old castle in Normandy, I believe, with his miserable twenty or thirty thousand francs income, which he is stupidly going to melt away in this hell of Paris, in two or three winters. He will be one of those numerous pale meteors which shine for an instant in the blazing sky of the great city, and suddenly disappear for ever, in darkness and forgetfulness, amidst the jeers of those they leave behind. But he is a good speaking-trumpet; as soon as I want to spread abroad any absurd rumour or any news from that other _monde_, I pick up M. du Pluvier, put him to my mouth, and--well, he does the rest! I don't mind making fun of him, because he is not contented with being a fool, but he must be conceited and vain as well. You should see the mysterious way in which he shows you the envelopes he receives that are sealed with coats of arms, all addressed to him, by the way; you should hear the tone in which he asks you, as he plumes himself with pride, 'Do you know the handwriting of the Countess of ----? of the Marquise of ----? of the Duchess of ----?' (Such an ordinary word as madame is beneath his notice.) And then the little man will show you such and such handwritings, which are letters from lady patronesses, enclosing tickets for charities, balls, lotteries, nobody knows what; for all the women of my acquaintance, to whom I introduce him, are sure to victimise him without the smallest scruple, so that he is the most ridiculously philanthropic fellow that I know of. "But," said M. de Cernay, interrupting himself, "I hear a carriage, I would wager it was Du Pluvier; you shall see something that is worth admiring." We then went to the window, and saw entering into the courtyard an open carriage drawn by two very handsome horses; but both carriage and harness were loaded down with ornaments in the worst possible taste. His men, dressed in liveries all covered with gold braid, looked like church beadles, and all this ridiculous and dazzling parade was to go and take lunch with a man in the morning. Very soon M. du Pluvier entered noisily. He was a stout little man, short, puffy red as a cherry, fair, and, though he only looked to be about twenty-five, he was quite bald. His eyes were greenish and dull; he spoke loudly with a Norman accent; he was dressed with the most ridiculous show and pretension, wore jewels, a waistcoat with silver embroidery, and more than I can think of that was out of place. M. de Cernay presented us to one another, and as soon as he had spoken my name M. du Pluvier exclaimed: "Ah, _parbleu_, I have seen you some place." This impoliteness shocked me, and I replied that I did not believe that I had ever had that pleasure, as I certainly should never have forgotten him.