“It is scarcely fair, after all,” said I, half laughing, “to criticise them so severely; and the more, as I think you had some old acquaintances among them.”
“Ha! you saw that, did you?” said he, smiling. “No, by Jove! I never met them before. But that confrèrie of soldiers—you understand—soon made us acquainted; and I saw one old fellow speaking to a very pretty girl I guessed to be his daughter, and soon cemented a small friendship with him: here's his card.”
“His card! Why, are you to visit him?”
“Better again; I shall dine there on Monday next. Let us see how he calls himself: 'Hippolyte Pierrot, stay and corset-maker to her Majesty the Empress, No. 22 Rue du Bac,—third floor above the entresol.' Diable! we 're high up. Unfortunately, I am scarcely intimate enough to bring a friend.”
“Oh, make no excuses on that head,” said I, laughing; “I really have no desire to see Monsieur Hippolyte Pierrot's menage. And now, what are your engagements for this evening? Are you for the Opera?”
“I don't well know,” said he, pausing. “Madame Caulaincourt receives, and of course expects to see our gay jackets in her salon any time before or after supper. Then there's the Comtesse de Nevers: I never go there without meeting my tailor; the fellow's a spy of the police, and a confectioner to boot, and he serves the ices, and reports the conversations in the Place Vendôme and that side of the Rue St. Honoré,—I couldn't take a glass of lemonade without being dunned. Then, in the Faubourg I must go in plain clothes,—they would not let the 'livery of the Usurper' pass the porter's lodge; besides, they worry one with their enthusiastic joy or grief,—as the last letter from England mentions whether the Comte d'Artois has eaten too many oysters, or found London beer too strong for him.”
“From all which I guess that you are indisposed to stir.”
“I believe that is about the fact. Truth is, Burke, there is only one soirée in all Paris I 'd take the trouble to dress for this evening; and, strange enough, it's the only house where I don't know the people. He is a commissary-general, or a 'fournisseur' of some kind or other of the army; always from home, they say; with a wife who was once, and a daughter who is now, exceeding pretty; keeps a splendid house; and, like an honest man, makes restitution of all he can cheat in the campaign by giving good dinners in the capital. His Majesty, at the solicitation of the Empress, I believe, made him a count,—God's mercy it was not a king!—and as they come from Guadaloupe, or Otaheite, no one disputes their right. Besides, this is not a time for such punctilio. This is all I know of them, for unfortunately they settled here since I joined the army.”
“And the name?”
“Oh, a very plausible name, I assure you. Lacostellerie,—Madame la Comtesse de Lacostellerie.”