It was only at dinner that I began to feel at ease. It went off rather pleasantly, for there were present several favourites of the prince, young men, evidently very well educated. One of them, who had lately returned from St. Petersburg, very cleverly mimicked Mdlle. Paget,[37] at her _soirées intimes_, singing, “Un soir à la barrière.” This song, though far from new, and almost gone from my memory, gave me the greatest pleasure. That evening the prince introduced me to the lady of his affections, whom he had taken away a short time before from one of the local municipal counsellors.[38] This most charming woman produced on me a profound impression, which was still further strengthened when I felt under the table the pressure of her foot against mine. Her husband was present, and greatly amused us by his jests at the expense of betrayed husbands, from which category the simple-hearted man did not exclude himself. Some of these jests, under the mask of _naïveté_, were so biting that the Pompadour reddened and lost his temper; but his morganatic friend, apparently, was accustomed to such scenes, for she looked on as if she had been an unconcerned outsider. Our merry supper was drawing to a close, when suddenly some one came running in to announce that a fire had broken out at the end of the town. “That is capital!” said the Pompadour to me. “Vous allez me voir à l’œuvre!”[39] But I, for my part, was far from glad, for I observed that the prince, for the first time in our acquaintance, was quite drunk. Whether the proximity of the object of his affections acted on him as a stimulant, or whether it was the direct result of the intoxication of power—be that as it may, he could hardly keep on his feet. It turned out, however, that even this was to his advantage. As a general rule, no fire ever occurred without his beating somebody, but on this occasion he slept through the whole affair, and only woke up when the flames were fully extinguished. As we returned home he startled me so distressingly that my heart seemed to contract as under the influence of some dark presentiment. “Well, Monsieur Chenapan” (he did not even conceal the insulting double meaning that he put into my name), “how do you (_tu_) like my place?” asked he. However deeply I was wounded by this deliberate jest, and by his unceremonious “thou,” addressed to a man who was no subordinate of his, I nevertheless felt it wise to submit. “I am more than enchanted, monseigneur,” said I. “H’m!... I should just like to see you not enchanted, you hound!” As he said that he laughed so strangely that I suddenly understood—I was not a guest, but a captive! Oh, ma France bien aimée! Oh, ma mère! * * * * *