"That is not all; you added that Comte Léodgard certainly would not come to our reception.—What made you think so, monsieur?"
Bahuchet smiled cunningly, scratched his forehead, and shifted from one leg to the other like a canary; he seemed to hesitate before replying, and looked now at the old lady, now at her niece, and again at Miretta.
"Well, monsieur, did you not hear my question?" added Mademoiselle de Mongarcin impatiently, and in an imperious tone.
"I beg your pardon, mademoiselle, I heard you perfectly; but there are some things which we young clerks of the Basoche say to one another, or when talking with the common people, which we should not dare to say to a young lady of noble birth."
"Since you have had a good education, monsieur, you should be able to use suitable terms in which to state a fact, and to refrain from saying anything that can offend my ears. So much the worse for you, if you cannot find a way to express yourself becomingly."
Bahuchet's self-esteem was stung to the quick; Valentine had hit upon the way to make him speak. He rested the hand in which he held his hat on his hip, and, striking an attitude like an advocate, said:
"Mademoiselle, I am very well able to express myself, and to select my words according to my audience. Thank heaven, I have fitted myself for the profession! My parents were poor, but poverty is not a vice! I do not know who it was that dared to say: 'It is something much worse!' but I do not share his opinion. Ignorance is a vice, and so is stupidity! Wealth does not always go hand in hand with merit! On the contrary, it seems to take pleasure in sneering at it!—Homer, poor and blind, wandered through the streets and public squares, reciting verses to obtain a crust of bread. Plautus, that original, satirical comic poet, turned the wheel of a mill for his livelihood. Agrippa died in the hospital. And it is said that the illustrious author of Don Quixote, Miguel Cervantes, died of want. Tasso was often reduced to the necessity of borrowing a crown."
"Mon Dieu! will he never be done?" said Valentine, turning to Miretta; "I am sure that my aunt has fallen asleep again."
The little clerk, observing that the beautiful young lady paid no attention to him, decided to return to the subject upon which she had questioned him.
"Pardon me, mademoiselle; I allow myself to be led astray by my schoolboy reminiscences. I return to the question which you did me the honor to ask me. I did say, it is true, that I believed Monsieur le Comte Léodgard to be too much engrossed by new intrigues at this moment to have time to come to your fête. My reason for saying that was that I have a friend—that is to say, a confrère—or a friend, no matter which!—one Plumard, who is bald already, at twenty-six! That is rather early to be bald!—Now, Plumard lives on Rue Dauphine—a small room under the eaves. And a few days ago we were leaning out of his window, looking into the street, and I recognized the young Comte de Marvejols walking back and forth and watching, out of the corner of his eye, the house of a bath keeper, who it seems has a charming daughter, a model of grace, beauty, and innocence. The parents never allow this enchanting creature to go out; the mother especially watches her with the greatest care. But Plumard said to me, laughingly: 'That young gentleman comes prowling about the house every day—he even comes in the evening! and it is probable that he comes late at night! He surely must have seen the bath keeper's daughter, and it is on her account that he passes his time in this quarter.'"