"But," resumed the duke, doggedly, "what on earth have you been doing in the country in the middle of winter, Saint-Remy? It mystifies me."
"How inquisitive he is!" said the viscount, addressing M. d'Harville; and then, turning to the duke, "I am anxious to wean myself gradually from Paris, as I am soon to quit it."
"Ah, yes, the beautiful idea of attaching you to the legation from France to Gerolstein! Pray leave off those silly ideas of diplomacy! You will never go. My wife says so, everybody says the same."
"I assure you that Madame de Lucenay is mistaken, as well as all the rest of the world."
"She told you, in my presence, that it was a folly."
"How many have I committed in my life?"
"Yes, elegant, charming follies, true;—such as people said would ruin you in your Sardanapalian magnificences,—that I admit. But to go and bury yourself alive in such a court,—at Gerolstein! What an idea! Psha! It is a folly, an absurdity; and you have too much good sense to commit absurdities."
"Take care, my dear Lucenay. When you abuse this German court, you will get up a quarrel with D'Harville, the intimate friend of the grand duke regnant, who, moreover, received me with the best possible grace at the embassy, where I was presented to him."
"Really, my dear Henry," said M. d'Harville, "if you knew the grand duke as I know him, you would understand that Saint-Remy could have no repugnance to passing some time at Gerolstein."
"I believe you, marquis, although they do say that he is very haughty and very peculiar, your grand duke; but that will not hinder a don like Saint-Remy, the finest sifting of the finest flour, from being unable to live anywhere but in Paris. It is in Paris only that he is duly appreciated."