The conversation was carried on, for some little time, standing, the company separating in small groups; but, when lights were brought, and the prince had fairly taken his seat at the whist-table, the _salon_ began, though gradually, to clear. Some of the guests retired to rest, in order to be abroad betimes on the morrow; some withdrew stealthily by a side door, and presently the noise of feet and the clattering of billiard-balls told plainly the reason of their absence; anon, another group would disappear, and then I was sure that a faint odour of cigars would blow in from the half-closed window. For me, I bravely resisted every invitation to move from the seat wherein I had so comfortably ensconced myself, being sufficiently occupied, this first evening, in making myself familiar with all the actors in the scene going on around me; and I was well repaid for my self-denial, for at that very moment were assembled, in that old courtly saloon, some of the brightest intellectual luminaries of the kingdom. “You are fortunate,” exclaimed C., as he kindly came to take his seat beside me, “in being a guest with some of our most remarkable illustrations of the ancient _régime_—men who remain, few in number, to tell the generation of our day what is meant by the ‘wits’ and _beaux esprits_ of a period which, although not distant, yet seems driven centuries back by the rapidity with which new eras, new societies, and new dynasties have succeeded each other. For instance,” continued he, “there is the Count de M.; I dare not call him the _old_ count, although, were age measured by years alone, he would certainly be considered to have well earned the title. He is already past the threescore years and ten fixed by the great Psalmist as the term of man’s life, and yet here he is, more alive, more pungent, more racy than ever. I know of no greater contrast than that which exists between this man and our princely host.