"What a coincidence! M. de Lucenay comes to breakfast with you, while I go, perhaps very indiscreetly, to invite myself to do the same with Madame de Lucenay; for I have much to say to her about my unknown _protegees_. From there I intend to go to the prison of Saint Lazare, with Madame de Blinval, for you do not know all my ambition; at this moment I am intriguing to be admitted into the Discharged Prisoners' Aid Society." "Truly, you are insatiable," said the marquis; "thus," added he, restraining with great difficulty his emotion, "thus I shall see you no more--to-day!" he hastened to add. "Are you vexed that I go out this morning so early?" asked Madame d'Harville, quickly, astonished at the tone of his voice. "If you ask it, I will put off my visit to Madame de Lucenay." The marquis was on the point of betraying himself; but said, in the most affectionate manner, "Yes, my dear, I am as much vexed to see you go out as I shall be impatient to see you return; these are defects I shall never correct myself of." "And you will do well, dear; for I should be very angry." A bell announcing a visit resounded throughout the hotel. "Here are, doubtless, some of your guests," said Madame d'Harville; "I leave you--by the way, what are you going to do to-night? If you have not disposed of your evening, I wish you would accompany me to the opera; perhaps, now, music will please you more!" "I place myself under your orders with the greatest pleasure." "Are you going out soon? Shall I see you again before dinner?" "I am not going out. You will find me here." "Then, when I return, I will come and see if your bachelor breakfast has been amusing." "Adieu, Clemence." "By, 'by! I leave you the field clear; I wish you much pleasure. Be very gay!" And after having cordially pressed the hand of her husband, Clemence went out by one door a moment before M. de Lucenay entered by another. "She wishes me much amusement--she tells me to be gay--she went away tranquilly--smiling! this does honor to my dissimulation. By Jove! I did not think myself so good an actor. But here is Lucenay." The Duke de Lucenay entered the room; his wound had been so slight that he did not carry his arm in a sling. He was one of those men whose countenances are always cheerful and contemptuous, movements always restless, and mania to make a bustle insurmountable. Yet, notwithstanding his caprices, his pleasantries in very bad taste, and his enormous nose, he was not a vulgar man, thanks to a kind of natural dignity and courageous impertinence which never abandoned him. "How indifferent you must suppose me to be as regards anything concerning you, my dear Henry!" said D'Harville, extending his hand to Lucenay; "but it was only this morning I heard of your disagreeable adventure."