Then I was questioned about the affair at Lichtenberg, for it seems the matter had made more than a stir at the Prussian Court. Questions were being asked; and there was that eruption of evil talk, that dicrotic rebound of excitement, which, after every social tragedy, is sure to follow the first wave. "And now," said my father, when I had finished my evidence, "run off and play till I am ready for you." Play! With whom did he expect me to play? With the fat Deputies, the opulent bankers, the sun-dried gentlemen from the south who thronged the ante-chamber? The Countess Wagner de Pons answered the question. This old lady, whose eccentricity and love of gossip had made her wait with her charge in the ante-room, instead of having her name announced to the Duchess de Morny, as any other lady of rank would have done, was deep in conversation with a tall, dignified gentleman, deep in scandal, no doubt; for, when she saw me she got rid of me at once by introducing me to the little Comte de Coigny. "And now," said she, as if echoing my father's words, "run off and play, both of you, in the garden." A footman in the blue-and-gold livery of the Duke led us down an iron staircase to the gravelled walk upon which the lower windows opened, and left us there. Play! There was less play in the stiff and starched little Comte de Coigny, that child of the haute noblesse, très propre, than in the elephant of the Jardin des Plantes, or any of the fat Deputies in M. de Morny's ante-room. But there was much more dignity, of a heavy sort. We took the path towards the river. "And you," said he, breaking the silence as we walked along. "Where have you come from?" "Germany," I replied. "I thought so," said he. He was a schoolboy of the Bourdaloue College, but all the planing and polishing of the Jesuit fathers had not improved his manners, it seems. The tone of his reply was an insult in itself, and I took it as such, and held my tongue and waited. We walked right down to the balustrade overlooking the Seine. De Coigny mounted, sat on the balustrade, whistled, and as he sat kicking his heels he cast his eyes up and down me from crown to toe. I stood before him with the seeming humility of the younger child; but my blood was boiling, and my knuckles itched at the sight of his flabby, pasty face. Some trees sheltered us from the house, and my gentleman from the Bourdaloue College took a box of Spanish cigaritos from his pocket and a matchbox adorned with the picture of a ballet-girl. He put a cigarito between his thick lips, lit it, blew a puff of smoke, and held out the box to me to have one. Fired with the manliness of the affair I put out my hand, and received, instead of a cigarito, a rap on the knuckles with his cane. "That's to teach you not to smoke," said Mentor. "How old are you?" "Nine," replied I. The blow hurt; but I put my hand in my pockets, and I think neither my voice nor my face betrayed my feelings.