“My dear friend, De Konigstein, one pinch! one pinch!” chirped out a little old odd-looking man, with a poudré head, and dressed in a costume in which the glories of the vieille cour seemed to retire with reluctance. A diamond ring twinkled on the snuffy hand, which was encircled by a rich ruffle of dirty lace. The brown coat was not modern, and yet not quite such an one as was worn by its master when he went to see the King dine in public at Versailles before the Revolution: large silver buckles still adorned the well-polished shoes; and silk stockings, whose hue was originally black, were picked out with clock-work of gold.
“My dear Marquis, I am most happy to see you; will you try the boulangero?”
“With pleasure! A-a-h! what a box! a Louis-Quatorze, I think?”
“Oh, no! by no means so old.”
“Pardon me, my dear De Konigstein; I think a Louis-Quatorze.”
“I bought it in Sicily.”
“A-a-h!” slowly exclaimed the little man, shaking his head.
“Well, good afternoon,” said the Baron, passing on.
“My dear De Konigstein, one pinch; you have often said you have a particular regard for me.”
“My dear Marquis!”