and quite forgetting his pose. "Where d'you think we are?"

After which he was conscious of a want of up-to-dateness in this
outburst of indignation and, throwing himself back on a great sofa, he
added:

"Gad! I say no! But I don't know much about it. There's a little chap
out there, Foucarmont they call him, who's to be met with everywhere
and at every turn. One's seen faster men than that, though, you bet.
However, it doesn't concern me, and indeed, all I know is that if the
countess indulges in high jinks she's still pretty sly about it, for the
thing never gets about--nobody talks."

Then although Fauchery did not take the trouble to question him, he told
him all he knew about the Muffats. Amid the conversation of the ladies,
which still continued in front of the hearth, they both spoke in subdued
tones, and, seeing them there with their white cravats and gloves, one
might have supposed them to be discussing in chosen phraseology some
really serious topic. Old Mme Muffat then, whom La Faloise had been well
acquainted with, was an insufferable old lady, always hand in glove with
the priests. She had the grand manner, besides, and an authoritative way
of comporting herself, which bent everybody to her will. As to Muffat,
he was an old man's child; his father, a general, had been created count
by Napoleon I, and naturally he had found himself in favor after the
second of December. He hadn't much gaiety of manner either, but
he passed for a very honest man of straightforward intentions and
understanding. Add to these a code of old aristocratic ideas and such
a lofty conception of his duties at court, of his dignities and of his
virtues, that he behaved like a god on wheels. It was the Mamma Muffat
who had given him this precious education with its daily visits to the