‘I quite agree with what you say,’ said the bishop. This was not extraordinary, as his official merely repeated a sentiment he had heard Monseigneur express several times before; ‘those whom I cannot suppress I dazzle, those whom I cannot dazzle I invite to my table.’ ‘There is sound worldly wisdom in that,’ said M. Ponce. ‘And it works admirably,’ the bishop continued; then, turning to his sister, he said, ‘Well, Baptistine, what about the box?’ The lady gave a little start, frowned, and shook her head. ‘Well,’ paused the bishop; ‘what is in it? Where have you put it?’ Mademoiselle Baptistine at once seated herself on the sofa, and spread her gown, as a screen, to cover it, whilst she made several cabalistic gestures to signify that the presence of a third party prevented her from saying what she wanted. M. Ponce caught a glimpse of these signs, or guessed that he was no longer wanted, for he rose, and, after having formally saluted the bishop, and asked permission to retire, he walked sideways towards the door, repeatedly turning to bow. As his hand rested upon the latch, the door was thrown open, and a large black retriever bounded into the room, between the legs of a powdered footman in purple livery, who announced, ‘M. le Marquis de Chambray.’ The gentleman who entered was tall and thin, with a solemn face, adorned with a pair of huge grey moustaches. His hair was powdered, and the dust covered the collar of his velvet coat. He was elaborately dressed, and had the air of an ancient dandy. The Marquis was a man of some fortune, and of illustrious family. He acted for the prince as his deputy in the bailiwicks of Orbec and Bernay. Scarcely less stiff and formal than his appearance was his character. He was an aristocrat of the aristocrats, filled with family pride, and rigid in his adherence to the rules of etiquette of the reign of Louis XIV. He was never known to have made a witty remark, certainly never a wise one. But though neither witty nor wise, he was a man who commanded respect, for he was too cautious ever to act foolishly, and too well-bred ever to behave discourteously. ‘Ah! sapristi!’ exclaimed the Marquis; ‘my naughty dog, how dare you intrude? I must apologise, my Lord, for the bad conduct of my dog. I left it in the courtyard, but it has found its way after me.’ ‘Let him remain,’ said the bishop; ‘fine fellow, noble dog! The doors are all open, my dear Marquis; the workmen are engaged in getting the palace just a little tidy for our distinguished visitor. Never mind the dog--it would be impossible to shut him out, whilst the house is in confusion. I am so sorry that you should be shown into this little boudoir; but really, I am driven to it as my only refuge in the midst of a chaos.’