"We have frequently had financial crises in the past," said d'Arlincourt, "and gotten safely over them; and so we should to-day, were it not for the host of philosophical writers who have broken loose; who call the people's attention to their ills, and foment trouble where there is none. Of course you will understand that I make the usual exception as to present company," he added, bowing slightly to the philosopher. But the latter seemed lost in thought and did not appear to hear the count's remark. The poet took up the conversation in a low tone. "Should we not look to these very men, these philosophers, these encyclopædists, to point the way out of the difficulty?" and he turned from one to the other with a shrug. "Bah, no! They are the very ones to blame, I tell you," repeated d'Arlincourt. "My dear count," cried Madame d'Arlincourt, "I cannot permit you to speak slightingly of our philosophers. They are all the fashion now. The door of every salon in Paris is open to them. The other night, at a great reception given by the Duchess de Montmorenci, half the invited guests were philosophers, poets, encyclopædists. They say that even some of the nobility were overlooked in order to make room for the men of letters." The Marquis de St. Hilaire threw a small cake to the spaniel that sat on its haunches begging for it. "We cannot very well overlook this new order of nobility of the ink-and-paper that has exerted such an influence during the last generation," he said carelessly. "I should not overlook them if I had my way," cried the Count d'Arlincourt. "I should lock them safely up in the Bastille." "Oh!" cried the ladies in one breath; "barbarian!" "These men are doubtless responsible for the inflamed state of the public mind," said St. Hilaire, again taking up the conversation. "Of course they are," agreed the count. "And so are Calonne and Brienne," continued the marquis. "They mismanaged affairs during their terms of office." Here the philosopher smiled an assent. "But the blame rests more heavily upon other shoulders than those of scribbling writers or corrupt officials," and the marquis paused to look around the table. "I am all attention," cried the Countess d'Arlincourt, prepared for something amusing. "Upon whom does it rest?" "Upon the nobility themselves," answered St. Hilaire. For a moment there was silence; then came a storm of protests from all sides, only the chevalier and the philosopher making no audible reply, although the latter said to himself:-- "You are right, monsieur le marquis." "St. Hilaire is in one of his mad fits," de Lacheville exclaimed. "If it were not for the nobility there would be no poetry, no wit," murmured the poet. "The nobility is the mainstay of the throne, the vitality of the country," said d'Arlincourt.