‘Why, that’s the Prince d’Athis, sir,’ replied Raymond, with a plebeian’s satisfaction in uttering the word ‘prince.’ ‘He has been taking _douches_ for some time past, and generally comes in the morning. But he is later to-day, on account of a burial, so he told Joseph.’ The door of Paul’s dressing-room was partly open during this dialogue, and in the room on the opposite side of the passage was visible La vaux. As he pulled on and buckled his long clerical hose, he said, ‘I say, Paul, did you see Sammy coming to freshen himself up a bit?’ ‘Freshen himself up?’ said Paul. ‘What for?’ ‘He’s going to be married in a fortnight, you know.’ ‘Oh! And when does he go to his Embassy?’ ‘Why, now, at once. The Princess has started. They are to be married out there.’ Paul had a horrid presentiment. ‘The Princess?’ he asked. ‘Whom is he going to marry?’ ‘Where have you been? It’s been the talk of Paris for the last two days! Colette, of course; Colette the inconsolable. I should like to see what the Duchess looks like. At the Loisillon affair she carried herself well, but never lifted her veil or spoke a word. It’s a tough bit to swallow, eh? When you think that only yesterday I was helping her to choose materials for the room he was to have at St. Petersburg!’ The ill-natured unctuous voice of the fashionable scandalmonger went on with the story as he finished buckling his garters, accompanied by the sound of a _douche_ two boxes off, and the Prince’s voice saying, ‘Harder, Joseph, harder, don’t be afraid.’ Freshening himself up, was he? Paul had crossed the passage as soon as Lavaux began to talk, that he might hear better. He was seized with a wild desire to kick in the door of the Prince’s room, spring on him, and have an explanation face to face with the scoundrel who was stealing the fortune almost in his grasp. Suddenly he perceived that he had nothing on, reflected that his wrath was ill-timed, and went back to his room, where he calmed down a little as he realised that the first thing to do was to have a talk with his mother and find out exactly how matters stood. That afternoon, for once, he had no flower in his buttonhole, and while, as the stream of carriages went past, the ladies looked languidly for the charming young man in the usual row, he was driving rapidly to the Rue de Beaune. There he was greeted by Corentine with bare arms and a dirty apron. She had taken the opportunity of her mistress’s absence to have a great clean-up. ‘Do you know where my mother is dining?’ No, her mistress had not told her. But the master was upstairs, rummaging in his papers. The little staircase leading to the paper-room creaked under Léonard Astier’s heavy tread. ‘Is that you, Paul?’ he asked. The dim light of the passage and his own agitation prevented the young man from noticing his father’s extraordinary appearance and the dazed sound of his voice when he answered. ‘How’s the Master?’ said the son--‘So mamma’s not in?’