"He's a Polish nobleman, a very intelligent young man, Palatine of Rava and Sandomir, who has a magnificent castle in the Krapach Mountains, which he heats with gas."
"Upon my word, Monsieur Ménard, I believe they have made you an absolute idiot!"
"No, monsieur le comte; I know what I am saying, and I am telling the simple truth."
"Where did you find this baron?"
"We found him on the road, near Paris; he overturned our carriage, by the way, and I was thrown into a ditch. But monsieur your son recognized Baron Potoski as one of his friends; so we joined him in King Stanislas's berlin, where I sat in the seat once occupied by the Princess of Hungary; and we have travelled with the baron ever since."
The Comte de Montreville paced the floor, stamping angrily, and looking up at the ceiling in despair. Ménard cowered in a corner, with his turban in his hand, afraid to move. After making the circuit of the room three or four times, the count returned to him.
"What has become of this baron?"
"He is playing Hippolyte, monsieur le comte; he is on the stage at this moment, and—— But, stay, here he is himself, monsieur le comte."
At this moment, in fact, Dubourg rushed into the room, crying:
"Come on, Thésée; we're waiting for you, to begin the third act."