And he returned to the ladies with a laugh. Last scion of a great family, of feminine manners and witty tongue, he was at that time running through a fortune with a rage of life and appetite which nothing could appease. His racing stable, which was one of the best known in Paris, cost him a fabulous amount of money; his betting losses at the Imperial Club amounted monthly to an alarming number of pounds, while taking one year with another, his mistresses would be always devouring now a farm, now some acres of arable land or forest, which amounted, in fact, to quite a respectable slice of his vast estates in Picardy. “I advise you to call other people skeptics! Why, you don’t believe a thing yourself,” said Leonide, making shift to find him a little space in which to sit down at her side. “It’s you who spoil your own pleasures.” “Exactly,” he replied. “I wish to make others benefit by my experience.” But the company imposed silence on him: he was scandalizing M. Venot. And, the ladies having changed their positions, a little old man of sixty, with bad teeth and a subtle smile, became visible in the depths of an easy chair. There he sat as comfortably as in his own house, listening to everybody’s remarks and making none himself. With a slight gesture he announced himself by no means scandalized. Vandeuvres once more assumed his dignified bearing and added gravely: “Monsieur Venot is fully aware that I believe what it is one’s duty to believe.” It was an act of faith, and even Leonide appeared satisfied. The young men at the end of the room no longer laughed; the company were old fogies, and amusement was not to be found there. A cold breath of wind had passed over them, and amid the ensuing silence Steiner’s nasal voice became audible. The deputy’s discreet answers were at last driving him to desperation. For a second or two the Countess Sabine looked at the fire; then she resumed the conversation. “I saw the king of Prussia at Baden-Baden last year. He’s still full of vigor for his age.” “Count Bismarck is to accompany him,” said Mme du Joncquoy. “Do you know the count? I lunched with him at my brother’s ages ago, when he was representative of Prussia in Paris. There’s a man now whose latest successes I cannot in the least understand.” “But why?” asked Mme Chantereau. “Good gracious, how am I to explain? He doesn’t please me. His appearance is boorish and underbred. Besides, so far as I am concerned, I find him stupid.” With that the whole room spoke of Count Bismarck, and opinions differed considerably. Vandeuvres knew him and assured the company that he was great in his cups and at play. But when the discussion was at its height the door was opened, and Hector de la Falois made his appearance. Fauchery, who followed in his wake, approached the countess and, bowing: “Madame,” he said, “I have not forgotten your extremely kind invitation.”