"That's just it!" said Mistigris, "when one's young, one's loved;
plenty of love, plenty of women; but they do say: 'Where there's wife,
there's mope.'"

"What does Madame Schinner say to all this?" pursued the count; "for I
believe you married, out of love, the beautiful Adelaide de Rouville,
the protegee of old Admiral de Kergarouet; who, by the bye, obtained
for you the order for the Louvre ceilings through his nephew, the
Comte de Fontaine."

"A great painter is never married when he travels," said Mistigris.

"So that's the morality of studios, is it?" cried the count, with an
air of great simplicity.

"Is the morality of courts where you got those decorations of yours
any better?" said Schinner, recovering his self-possession, upset for
the moment by finding out how much the count knew of Schinner's life
as an artist.

"I never asked for any of my orders," said the count. "I believe I
have loyally earned them."

"'A fair yield and no flavor,'" said Mistigris.

The count was resolved not to betray himself; he assumed an air of
good-humored interest in the country, and looked up the valley of
Groslay as the coucou took the road to Saint-Brice, leaving that to
Chantilly on the right.