“My son, the Comte d’Esgrignon, cannot make his appearance at court like a tatterdemalion,” he continued after a pause, marked by a sigh; “he must be equipped. Alas! for these two hundred years we have had no retainers. Ah! Chevalier, this demolition from top to bottom always brings me back to the first hammer stroke delivered by M. de Mirabeau. The one thing needful nowadays is money; that is all that the Revolution has done that I can see. The King does not ask you whether you are a descendant of the Valois or a conquerer of Gaul; he asks whether you pay a thousand francs in tailles which nobles never used to pay. So I cannot well send the Count to court without a matter of twenty thousand crowns----” “Yes,” assented the Chevalier, “with that trifling sum he could cut a brave figure.” “Well,” said Mlle. Armande, “I have asked Chesnel to come to-night. Would you believe it, Chevalier, ever since the day when Chesnel proposed that I should marry that miserable du Croisier----” “Ah! that was truly unworthy, mademoiselle!” cried the Chevalier. “Unpardonable!” said the Marquis. “Well, since then my brother has never brought himself to ask anything whatsoever of Chesnel,” continued Mlle. Armande. “Of your old household servant? Why, Marquis, you would do Chesnel honor--an honor which he would gratefully remember till his latest breath.” “No,” said the Marquis, “the thing is beneath one’s dignity, it seems to me.” “There is not much question of dignity; it is a matter of necessity,” said the Chevalier, with the trace of a shrug. “Never,” said the Marquis, riposting with a gesture which decided the Chevalier to risk a great stroke to open his old friend’s eyes. “Very well,” he said, “since you do not know it, I will tell you myself that Chesnel has let your son have something already, something like----” “My son is incapable of accepting anything whatever from Chesnel,” the Marquis broke in, drawing himself up as he spoke. “He might have come to _you_ to ask you for twenty-five louis----” “Something like a hundred thousand livres,” said the Chevalier, finishing his sentence. “The Comte d’Esgrignon owes a hundred thousand livres to a Chesnel!” cried the Marquis, with every sign of deep pain. “Oh! if he were not an only son, he should set out to-night for Mexico with a captain’s commission. A man may be in debt to money-lenders, they charge a heavy interest, and you are quits; that is right enough; but _Chesnel_! a man to whom one is attached!----” “Yes, our adorable Victurnien has run through a hundred thousand livres, dear Marquis,” resumed the Chevalier, flicking a trace of snuff from his waistcoat; “it is not much, I know. I myself at his age---- But, after all, let us let old memories be, Marquis. The Count is living in the provinces; all things taken into consideration, it is not so much amiss. He will not go far; these irregularities are common in men who do great things afterwards----”