“Isn’t everything going on right?” asked the count, taking the “bocchettino” of his narghile from his lips. “Everything is going on so right that other people with an income of two hundred thousand francs would ruin themselves by going at our pace, and we have only one hundred and ten thousand.” So saying she pulled the bell-cord (an exquisite bit of needlework). A footman entered, dressed like a minister. “Tell Captain Paz that I wish to see him.” “If you think you are going to find out anything that way--” said Comte Adam, laughing. It is well to mention that Adam and Clementine, married in December, 1835, had gone soon after the wedding to Italy, Switzerland, and Germany, where they spent the greater part of two years. Returning to Paris in November, 1837, the countess entered society for the first time as a married woman during the winter which had just ended, and she then became aware of the existence, half-suppressed and wholly dumb but very useful, of a species of factotum who was personally invisible, named Paz,--spelt thus, but pronounced “Patz.” “Monsieur le capitaine Paz begs Madame la comtesse to excuse him,” said the footman, returning. “He is at the stables; as soon as he has changed his dress Comte Paz will present himself to Madame.” “What was he doing at the stables?” “He was showing them how to groom Madame’s horse,” said the man. “He was not pleased with the way Constantin did it.” The countess looked at the footman. He was perfectly serious and did not add to his words the sort of smile by which servants usually comment on the actions of a superior who seems to them to derogate from his position. “Ah! he was grooming Cora.” “Madame la comtesse intends to ride out this morning?” said the footman, leaving the room without further answer. “Is Paz a Pole?” asked Clementine, turning to her husband, who nodded by way of affirmation.