"My dear child," put in Madame de Rémur, "it would do no good to give them bread to-day; they would be hungry again to-morrow. The trouble is with the finances. When they are set right everything will go well; and the people can buy all the bread they want, and you can have your diamond crescent," and the speaker smiled at the chevalier and shrugged her white shoulders.
"Yes, but," persisted the countess, raising her pretty eyebrows, "when will the finances be set right? The people cannot go forever without bread."
"Nor can women go forever without diamonds," laughed Madame de Rémur.
"Women with your eyes, fair Diane, have no need of other diamonds," said the Marquis de St. Hilaire debonairely. The lady smiled graciously at the compliment. She was a young and attractive widow and she looked at St. Hilaire not unkindly.
"We have frequently had financial crises in the past," said d'Arlincourt, "and gotten safely over them; and so we should to-day, were it not for the host of philosophical writers who have broken loose; who call the people's attention to their ills, and foment trouble where there is none. Of course you will understand that I make the usual exception as to present company," he added, bowing slightly to the philosopher. But the latter seemed lost in thought and did not appear to hear the count's remark. The poet took up the conversation in a low tone.
"Should we not look to these very men, these philosophers, these encyclopædists, to point the way out of the difficulty?" and he turned from one to the other with a shrug.
"Bah, no! They are the very ones to blame, I tell you," repeated d'Arlincourt.
"My dear count," cried Madame d'Arlincourt, "I cannot permit you to speak slightingly of our philosophers. They are all the fashion now. The door of every salon in Paris is open to them. The other night, at a great reception given by the Duchess de Montmorenci, half the invited guests were philosophers, poets, encyclopædists. They say that even some of the nobility were overlooked in order to make room for the men of letters."
The Marquis de St. Hilaire threw a small cake to the spaniel that sat on its haunches begging for it.
"We cannot very well overlook this new order of nobility of the ink-and-paper that has exerted such an influence during the last generation," he said carelessly.