confessional, its complete absence of escapades and of all that is meant
by youth. He was a practicing Christian and had attacks of faith of such
fiery violence that they might be likened to accesses of burning
fever. Finally, in order to add a last touch to the picture, La Faloise
whispered something in his cousin's ear.

"You don't say so!" said the latter.

"On my word of honor, they swore it was true! He was still like that
when he married."

Fauchery chuckled as he looked at the count, whose face, with its fringe
of whiskers and absence of mustaches, seemed to have grown squarer and
harder now that he was busy quoting figures to the writhing, struggling
Steiner.

"My word, he's got a phiz for it!" murmured Fauchery. "A pretty present
he made his wife! Poor little thing, how he must have bored her! She
knows nothing about anything, I'll wager!"

Just then the Countess Sabine was saying something to him. But he did
not hear her, so amusing and extraordinary did he esteem the Muffats'
case. She repeated the question.

"Monsieur Fauchery, have you not published a sketch of Monsieur de
Bismarck? You spoke with him once?"

He got up briskly and approached the circle of ladies, endeavoring to
collect himself and soon with perfect ease of manner finding an answer: