The maître-d’hôtel bowed. “I have not,” said he, “named M. de Taverney, because, being an old friend, he will probably be punctual.” “Good; and where do we dine?” “In the great dining-room, your grace.” “But we shall freeze there.” “It has been warmed for three days, your grace; and I believe you will find it perfectly comfortable.” “Very well; but there is a clock striking! Why, it is half-past four!” cried the marshal. “Yes, your grace; and there is the courier entering the courtyard with my bottle of tokay.” “May I continue for another twenty years to be served in this manner!” said the marshal, turning again to his looking-glass, while the maître-d’hôtel ran down-stairs. “Twenty years!” said a laughing voice, interrupting the marshal in his survey of himself; “twenty years, my dear duke! I wish them you; but then I shall be sixty—I shall be very old.” “You, countess!” cried the marshal, “you are my first arrival, and, mon Dieu! you look as young and charming as ever.” “Duke, I am frozen.” “Come into the boudoir, then.” “Oh! tête-à-tête, marshal?” “Not so,” replied a somewhat broken voice. “Ah! Taverney!” said the marshal; and then whispering to the countess, “Plague take him for disturbing us!” Madame Dubarry laughed, and they all entered the adjoining room. [A] The name of Count Haga was well known as one assumed by the King of Sweden when traveling in France. II.—M. DE LA PEROUSE. At the same moment, the noise of carriages in the street warned the marshal that his guests were arriving; and soon after, thanks to the punctuality of his maître-d’hôtel, nine persons were seated round the oval table in the dining-room. Nine lackeys, silent as shadows, quick without bustle, and attentive without importunity, glided over the carpet, and passed among the guests, without ever touching their chairs, which were surrounded with furs, which were wrapped round the legs of the sitters. These furs, with the heat from the stoves, and the odors from the wine and the dinner, diffused a degree of comfort, which manifested itself in the gaiety of the guests, who had just finished their soup. No sound was heard from without, and none within, save that made by the guests themselves; for the plates were changed, and the dishes moved round, with the most perfect quiet. Nor from the maître d’hôtel could a whisper be heard; he seemed to give his orders with his eyes. The guests, therefore, began to feel as though they were alone. It seemed to them that servants so silent must also be deaf. M. de Richelieu was the first who broke the silence, by saying to the guest on his right hand, “But, count, you drink nothing.” This was addressed to a man about thirty-eight years of age, short, fair-haired, and with high shoulders; his eye a clear blue, now bright, but oftener with a pensive expression, and with nobility stamped unmistakably on his open and manly forehead. “I only drink water, marshal,” he replied.