As he listened to his young friend, Monfréville looked about the room in keen scrutiny. He examined Mademoiselle Chichette and the supposititious outraged husband, who acted as if he wished to crawl under the table. Chérubin had no sooner finished speaking than Monfréville ran up to Poterne, snatched off his hat and spectacles, and raised his cane threateningly. “This creature a Polish count!” he exclaimed; “why, it’s that vile Poterne, the agent of that contemptible knave Daréna! They plotted together this infamous scheme to extort money from you!--Ah! I am strongly tempted to break my cane over this cur’s shoulders!” “Poterne!” cried Chérubin; “is it possible? Poterne!” “Why, yes,” said Jasmin, “it’s the dealer in preserves and dogs and turtles. Ah! my dear master, I suspected that they meant to take you in again; and that that man who called me an old donkey was fixing up some treacherous scheme to catch you.” When he saw Monfréville’s cane in the air, Poterne fell on his knees. “Mercy, monsieur,” he faltered, “all this was only a joke--nothing else; it was a comedy!” “A jest, you villain! But your notes of hand were properly stamped! Oh! we know now what you are capable of, you and your worthy friend, Comte Daréna, who has fallen low enough now to blush at nothing, and in whose eyes all methods of procuring money are all right. We agree not to treat you as you deserve. Go and join your confederate, and tell him that this young man is able now to judge him as he is, and that if he should ever presume to show his face at the hôtel de Grandvilain, the servants will be instructed to turn him out.” “Yes, indeed, I will undertake to do it!” said Jasmin. “He called me an old ruin too! but an honest ruin is worth more than a sharper in perfect repair.” Monsieur Poterne did not wait to hear any more; he picked up his hat and spectacles, hastily opened the door, and fled; but he was not so quick that he did not receive the toe of Jasmin’s boot in his posterior; and the old servant said to him at the same time: “There, you thief; take that for your preserves!” Monfréville walked toward Chichette, who had remained on the couch, without speaking or moving; he could not help smiling at her expression. “And you, madame la comtesse,” he said, “in what shop do you usually work?” “I make Italian straw hats on Rue de Grenétat. It wasn’t my fault; they promised me a lot of money if I’d make believe I was monsieur’s wife; and I consented so I could put it by and marry my little pays.” Mademoiselle Chichette drew her handkerchief and looked as if she were going to weep; but Monfréville reassured her by saying: “I have nothing against you, my girl; don’t cry, and go back to your Italian straw hats. But believe me, it is much better for one in your trade to dance the cancan than to play the great lady.” Mademoiselle Chichette blew her nose, made several curtsies, then left the room with a shamefaced air, not venturing to glance at Chérubin.