Jenkins entered the bedroom, which was as prosaic a place as all furnished apartments are, and approached the fire, where curling-tongs of all dimensions were heating, while from the adjoining laboratory, separated from the bedroom by an Algerian curtain, the Marquis de Monpavon submitted to the manipulations of his valet. Odors of patchouli, cold cream, burned horn and burned hair escaped from the restricted quarters; and from time to time, when François came out to take a fresh pair of tongs, Jenkins caught a glimpse of an enormous dressing-table laden with innumerable little instruments of ivory, steel, and mother-of-pearl, files, scissors, powder-puffs and brushes, phials, cups, cosmetics, labelled, arranged in lines, and amid all that rubbish, petty ironmongery and dolls' playthings, a hand, the hand of an old man, awkward and trembling, dry and long, with nails as carefully kept as a Japanese painter's.
While making up his face, the longest and most complicated of his matutinal occupations, Monpavon chatted with the doctor, told him of his aches and pains and of the good effect of the pearls, which were making him younger, he said. And listening to him thus, at a little distance, without seeing him, one would have believed he was the Duc de Mora, he had so faithfully copied his way of speaking. There were the same unfinished sentences, ending in a ps—ps—ps—uttered between the teeth. "What's-his-names" and "What-d'ye-call-'ems" at every turn, a sort of lazy, bored, aristocratic stammer, in which one divined profound contempt for the vulgar art of speech. In the duke's circle everybody strove to copy that accent, those disdainful intonations, in which there was an affectation of simplicity.
Jenkins, finding the session a little tedious, rose to go.
"Adieu, I am going. Shall I see you at the Nabob's?"
"Yes, I expect to breakfast there—promised to take What's-his-name, Thingumbob, you know, about our great affair—ps—ps—ps. Weren't for that, I'd stay away—downright menagerie, that house."
The Irishman, despite his kindly feeling, agreed that the society at his friend's house was a little mixed. But what of that! they must not blame him for that. He didn't know any better, poor man.
"Doesn't know and won't learn," said Monpavon sourly. "Instead of consulting men of experience—ps—ps—ps—takes the first sycophant that comes. Did you see the horses Bois-l'Héry bought for him? Downright swindle, those beasts. And he paid twenty thousand francs for them. I'll wager Bois-l'Héry got 'em for six thousand."
"Oh! fie, fie—a gentleman!" said Jenkins, with the indignation of a noble soul refusing to believe in evil.
Monpavon went on, as if he did not hear:
"And all because the horses came from Mora's stable!"