The Baron could not make epigrams. He needed at least four sentences of six lines each, in order to be brilliant. "That man argues, he does not talk," said someone behind Julien. He turned round and reddened with pleasure when he heard the name of the comte Chalvet. He was the subtlest man of the century. Julien had often found his name in the _Memorial of St. Helena_ and in the portions of history dictated by Napoleon. The diction of comte Chalvet was laconic, his phrases were flashes of lightning--just, vivid, deep. If he talked about any matter the conversation immediately made a step forward; he imported facts into it; it was a pleasure to hear him. In politics, however, he was a brazen cynic. "I am independent, I am," he was saying to a gentleman with three stars, of whom apparently he was making fun. "Why insist on my having to-day the same opinion I had six weeks ago. In that case my opinion would be my master." Four grave young men who were standing round scowled; these gentlemen did not like flippancy. The comte saw that he had gone too far. Luckily he perceived the honest M. Balland, a veritable hypocrite of honesty. The count began to talk to him; people closed up, for they realised that poor Balland was going to be the next victim. M. Balland, although he was horribly ugly and his first steps in the world were almost unmentionable, had by dint of his morals and his morality married a very rich wife who had died; he subsequently married a second very rich one who was never seen in society. He enjoyed, in all humility, an income of sixty thousand francs, and had his own flatterers. Comte Chalvet talked to him pitilessly about all this. There was soon a circle of thirty persons around them. Everybody was smiling, including the solemn young men who were the hope of the century. "Why does he come to M. de la Mole where he is obviously only a laughing stock?" thought Julien. He approached the abbé Pirard to ask him. M. Balland made his escape. "Good," said Norbert, "there is one of the spies of my father gone; there is only the little limping Napier left." "Can that be the key of the riddle?" thought Julien, "but if so, why does the marquis receive M. Balland?" The stern abbé Pirard was scowling in a corner of the salon listening to the lackeys announcing the names. "This is nothing more than a den," he was saying like another Basil, "I see none but shady people come in."