A moment later the Marquis entered and came straight up to him. The few habitués who preferred to drink their coffee inside the building turned round to look at him, but the place was now nearly empty. “Well?” asked Château-Foix significantly. The Vicomte shrugged his shoulders. “Sit down, mon cher. I am desirous of making you a full and leisurely apology. You will take coffee? François, coffee for two and plenty of cream! Do you know, Gilbert, that since the patriotic Assembly took to sitting so assiduously, you can always get cream in the Palais-Royal at any time, since nobody knows at what hour our dear deputies may come in here and demand refreshment after so much talking. So there is one good result, at least, of the present tenancy of the Manège.” “I suppose,” said Gilbert when the coffee had been brought, “that your reference to an apology means——” “That your surmises, my dear cousin, are probably correct. As I cannot yet be sure, I make the apology conditional—like the baptism of heretics. In a day or two you may be in possession of the precious thing without reservation.” “What have you found out?” asked the Marquis, divided between relief and apprehension. “Very little,” returned his cousin, helping himself to cream. “That’s the damnable part of it. I spent the whole of yesterday seeing people and talking to them and telling them of the King’s prohibition. The net result of my enquiries was that I elicited these facts. First, that D’Aubeville had yesterday morning received an anonymous letter of warning; secondly, that the Comte de Périgny’s latest deity—one of the ladies here at the Palais-Royal—had had a fit of hysterics for which—it’s a long story—he could assign no other cause than anxiety for his safety based on some information the nymph wouldn’t divulge; and, thirdly—but this may not be a fact, a rumour of something Madame Roland said at her salon a night or two ago. You have heard of Louvet?” “I have heard of his book.” “You surprise me. _Faublas_ is not exactly for the virtuous. But Louvet is now a member of the Legislative, and better known for that rather amusing pink sheet of his, _La Sentinelle_, which you may have noticed decorating the walls of this city. Well, Louvet is a devotee also of Buzot’s Egeria, who is not, I believe, over well disposed towards Madame d’Espaze. Egeria—as the tale goes—said to him two nights ago, as he was leaving, ‘Do you never go to the Salon du Luxembourg?’—meaning, of course, Madame d’Espaze’s house in the Rue de Tournon—‘I should advise you to make haste to sample it before it closes.’ Now there is no reason why Célie—why Madame d’Espaze should close her salon, or why anybody should close it for her, unless the purpose which it has served should suddenly come to an end. Anyhow, Madame Roland meant something, and let it slip. The tale may not, however, be true; naturally, I hadn’t it at first hand. You are not drinking your coffee, and Jousserand’s feelings will be hurt.”