“To myself, monsieur.”
“Why did you not say so at once, my dear M. Mauvaisecorne?”
“Malicorne, monsieur le comte.”
“Forgive me; it is the Latin that bothers me—that terrible mine of etymologies. Why the deuce are young men of family taught Latin? Mala and mauvaise—you understand it is the same thing. You will forgive me, I trust, M. de Malicorne.”
“Your kindness affects me much, monsieur: but it is a reason why I should make you acquainted with one circumstance without any delay.”
“What is it?”
“That I was not born a gentleman. I am not without courage, and not altogether deficient in ability; but my name is Malicorne simply.”
“You appear to me, monsieur!” exclaimed the count, looking at the astute face of his companion, “to be a most agreeable man. Your face pleases me, M. Malicorne, and you must possess some indisputably excellent qualities to have pleased that egotistical Manicamp. Be candid, and tell me whether you are not some saint descended upon the earth.”
“Why so?”
“For the simple reason that he makes you a present of anything. Did you not say that he intended to make you a present of some appointment in the king’s house