He kissed Mme. Darbois's hand and almost crushed the professor's fingers in his nervous grasp. He asked anxiously concerning Penhouet, and expressed his desire to return there immediately. Maurice and Genevieve came running up. "How happy every one looks here," said Mme. Darbois. "Don't believe it, my dear aunt; we are standing on a volcano." "Ah! the cares of the fête weigh upon you. It always seems as if everything were going wrong at the last moment." She laughed, proud of her penetrations. Genevieve tugged at Maurice's vest as he was about to set the dear lady right. "Ah! well, I leave you to dress. This evening, uncle, I want to have a chat with you as I have something serious to say to you." The philosopher and his wife looked at each other understandingly. "Very well, my boy, I shall be entirely at your disposal for as long as you like, for I can guess...." And he looked at Genevieve. Maurice despaired of ever making him understand. CHAPTER XXVI Everyone greeted the philosopher with delight when he appeared in the ante-chamber where the guests were assembled before dinner. The Duke came to present his greetings to Mme. Darbois and stayed talking to her for some time. He saw that she liked him, but foresaw at the same time that it would be very painful for the good woman to have to accept another son-in-law. During dinner the Duchess steered the conversation towards philosophy, wishing to please François, who was placed on her right--art and science being to her the highest titles of nobility. "Ah! I am no philosopher," protested the Marquis de Montagnac. "I accept old age only as a chastisement, and not having committed any criminal act, I revolt against the injustice of it." And Louis de Marset, bending towards his neighbour, who had had a great reputation for beauty before age and illness had pulled her down, remarked, "One cannot be and have been, is not that true, Madame?" "You are mistaken, my dear sir. There are some poor people who are born fools and never change." A smile of delight appeared on every face. The Duke found himself in an argument with Lord Glerey, a phlegmatic Englishman, whose marital misfortunes had made both London and Paris laugh. "You seem," said the Duke, "to confuse indifference with philosophy." "I do not confuse them, my dear sir. My apparent indifference is simply scorn for the sarcasms, the cruelty of the people of society who are always ready to rejoice when anyone attacks the honour or love of another." The Duke murmured slowly, "Certainly what they call 'the world' deserves scorn. And all the same, taken separately, every individual of this collectivity is a man or woman like any other, a suffering being, who laughs just the same, like an eternal Figaro, for fear of being compelled to weep." Count Albert was talking to an old sceptic.