“Persons are usually good enough to call me Monsieur Leger,” said the millionaire.
“Why, here’s our blagueur of the famous journey to Presles,” cried Joseph Bridau. “Have you made any new campaigns in Asia, Africa, or America?”
“Sacrebleu! I’ve made the revolution of July, and that’s enough for me, for it ruined me.”
“Ah! you made the revolution of July!” cried the painter, laughing. “Well, I always said it never made itself.”
“How people meet again!” said Monsieur Leger, turning to Monsieur de Reybert. “This, papa Reybert, is the clerk of the notary to whom you undoubtedly owe the stewardship of Presles.”
“We lack Mistigris, now famous under his own name of Leon de Lora,” said Joseph Bridau, “and the little young man who was stupid enough to talk to the count about those skin diseases which are now cured, and about his wife, whom he has recently left that he may die in peace.”
“And the count himself, you lack him,” said old Reybert.
“I’m afraid,” said Joseph Bridau, sadly, “that the last journey the count will ever take will be from Presles to Isle-Adam, to be present at my marriage.”
“He still drives about the park,” said Reybert.
“Does his wife come to see him?” asked Leger.