“He is thinking that this winter has cost a good deal, and that it is time we went to economize with your old uncle Ronquerolles,” replied Adam. The countess stopped the carriage near Paz, and bade him take the seat beside her. Thaddeus grew as red as a cherry. “I shall poison you,” he said; “I have been smoking.” “Doesn’t Adam poison me?” she said. “Yes, but he is Adam,” returned the captain. “And why can’t Thaddeus have the same privileges?” asked the countess, smiling. That divine smile had a power which triumphed over the heroic resolutions of poor Paz; he looked at Clementine with all the fire of his soul in his eyes, though, even so, its flame was tempered by the angelic gratitude of the man whose life was based upon that virtue. The countess folded her arms in her shawl, lay back pensively on her cushions, ruffling the feathers of her pretty bonnet, and looked at the people who passed her. That flash of a great and hitherto resigned soul reached her sensibilities. What was Adam’s merit in her eyes? It was natural enough to have courage and generosity. But Thaddeus--surely Thaddeus possessed, or seemed to possess, some great superiority over Adam. They were dangerous thoughts which took possession of the countess’s mind as she again noticed the contrast of the fine presence that distinguished Thaddeus, and the puny frame in which Adam showed the degenerating effects of intermarriage among the Polish aristocratic families. The devil alone knew the thoughts that were in Clementine’s head, for she sat still, with thoughtful, dreamy eyes, and without saying a word until they reached home. “You will dine with us; I shall be angry if you disobey me,” she said as the carriage turned in. “You are Thaddeus to me, as you are to Adam. I know your obligations to him, but I also know those we are under to you. Both generosities are natural--but you are generous every day and all day. My father dines here to-day, also my uncle Ronquerolles and my aunt Madame de Serizy. Dress yourself therefore,” she said, taking the hand he offered to assist her from the carriage. Thaddeus went to his own room to dress with a joyful heart, though shaken by an inward dread. He went down at the last moment and behaved through dinner as he had done on the first occasion, that is, like a soldier fit only for his duties as a steward. But this time Clementine was not his dupe; his glance had enlightened her. The Marquis de Ronquerolles, one of the ablest diplomates after Talleyrand, who had served with de Marsay during his short ministry, had been informed by his niece of the real worth and character of Comte Paz, and knew how modestly he made himself the steward of his friend Laginski. “And why is this the first time I have the pleasure of seeing Comte Paz?” asked the marquis. “Because he is so shy and retiring,” replied Clementine with a look at Paz telling him to change his behavior.