"There's no one like Monsieur de Valois for such wit."
Du Bousquier went to look at himself in a little oblong mirror, placed above the "Deserter," but he saw nothing strange in his appearance.
After innumerable repetitions of the same text, varied in all keys, the departure of the company took place about ten o'clock, through the long antechamber, Mademoiselle Cormon conducting certain of her favorite guests to the portico. There the groups parted; some followed the Bretagne road towards the chateau; the others went in the direction of the river Sarthe. Then began the usual conversation, which for twenty years had echoed at that hour through this particular street of Alencon. It was invariably:—
"Mademoiselle Cormon looked very well to-night."
"Mademoiselle Cormon? why, I thought her rather strange."
"How that poor abbe fails! Did you notice that he slept? He does not know what cards he holds; he is getting very absent-minded."
"We shall soon have the grief of losing him."
"What a fine night! It will be a fine day to-morrow."
"Good weather for the apple-blossoms."
"You beat us; but when you play with Monsieur de Valois you never do otherwise."