“You forget two things: first, that the Cousin Pons is dead; and secondly, that in his lifetime he always wore a green velvet coat. But though Orestes is no more, Pylades still lives. Damon has survived Pythias. It is Schmucke who sits before you. He is very poor; he has nothing but the fifty francs a month which he earns here, and the payment of a few piano lessons at seventy-five centimes each; but he will not accept any assistance, and, for my part, I have never seen tatters more proudly worn.” “Can you not,” I asked, “show me M. Maxime de Trailles?” “De Trailles no longer lives in Paris. When the devil grows stout he turns hermit. This retired condottiere is now a married man, the father of a family, and resides in the country. He makes speeches at the agricultural fairs, takes great interest in cattle, and represents his county at the general assembly of his department,—_the late_ Maxime de Trailles, as he is now pleased to call himself.” “And Des Lupeaulx?” “Des Lupeaulx is a prefect of the first class. But in place of these gentlemen, you have before you, in that box, the Count Félix de Vandernesse and the Countess Nathalie de Manerville; a little beyond, the Grandvilles and the Grandlieux; then, the Duke de Rhétoré, Laginski, D’Esgrignon Montreveau, Rochefide, and D’Ajuda-Ponto. Moreover, there are the Cheffrevilles; but then what a pity it is that our poor Camille Maupin is not present at this solemnity!” “Is it of Mlle. des Touches that you speak?” “Yes.” “Is she still religiously inclined?” “She died like a saint, two years ago, in a convent near Nantes. She retired from the world, you remember, after accomplishing the marriage of Calyste du Guénic and Sabine de Grandlieu. What a woman she was! There are none like her now.” These last words of M. de Rastignac were covered by the three traditional knocks which precede the rise of the curtain. “‘Mercadet’ is about to commence,” he said. “After the first act I will continue my gossip; provided, of course, that I do not weary you with it.” “Oh, my dear sir!” I cried. “My”— I had not time to complete my phrase; a friendly but vigorous hand grasped my arm. “So you come to ‘Mercadet’ to sleep, do you?” said a well-known voice. “I? Am I asleep?” “You are not asleep now, but you were.” I turned quickly around. My neighbor was a fat-faced gentleman, with blue spectacles, who was peeling an orange with the most ridiculous gravity. In the boxes and orchestra stalls, wherever I had thought to see the personages of the “Comédie Humaine,” I found only insignificant faces, of the ordinary and graceless type,—a collection of obliterated medals. At this moment the curtain rose, the actors appeared, and the great comedy of “Mercadet” was revealed, amid the applause and delight of the crowd.