"I can scarcely believe," said I, "from what you have told me, that Madame de Pënâfiel can really be in good standing. Who goes to see her?"
"She entertains the most distinguished men and women in society, for she has one of the handsomest houses in Paris, an enormous fortune, and receives in an almost royal style; besides this, her salon has great weight in intellectual circles, but all this does not prevent Madame de Pënâfiel from being detested according to her deserts."
"And what kind of a woman is she outside of all this? Is she clever?"
"Enormously clever, but she can say very sharp, very biting things; and then she is scornful, capricious, excessively overbearing, for she is used to having everything give way to her, because certain positions are so elevated that, whether or no, you are expected to be obsequious. It is needless to tell you that her coquetry passes all limits, and as to describing her, she has the most ridiculous pretensions. She undertakes to know all about—guess what! The abstract sciences, art, everything you can imagine! Oh, I assure you, she is a strange, charming, and ridiculous woman. As I am one of her very good friends, I would propose to you to call and be presented to her, warning you, however, that she is as dangerous as she is peculiar; but she is so capricious and changeable that I cannot promise that you will be well received, for what she refuses to-day she cries for to-morrow.
"But," said the count, as he looked at the clock, "it is getting to be late, it is two o'clock; let us send for the carriages." And he rang the bell.
We all went out. The miraculous turnout of M. de Pluvier went ahead, and the little man threw himself triumphantly into it, missing the step as he did so.
I had fancied that for the last few minutes M. de Cernay showed signs of uneasiness. I imagined that he was somewhat curious to find out if I was worthy (by my horses at least) to gravitate around such a brilliant planet as he.
As my cabriolet drew up, M. de Cernay looked it over with a connoisseur's glance. It was very simple, very plain, the harness was all black; but the bay horse was very large and of perfect form, and his action was almost equal to the celebrated "Coventry's."[2]
"Diable! but that is a beautiful turnout, and you certainly have there the finest cabriolet horse in Paris!" said M. de Cerval, in a tone of approbation, in which there seemed to be just the smallest possible shade of envy.
From that moment I felt that the count had placed me high in his estimation. His phaëton drove up; he got into it beside Ismaël.