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Updated: May 10, 2025
"What place is that?" said Oscar, pointing to the chateau de Franconville, which produces a fine effect at that particular spot, backed, as it is, by the noble forest of Saint-Martin. "How is it," cried the count, "that you, who say you go so often to Presles, do not know Franconville?" "Monsieur knows men, not castles," said Mistigris.
"The husband was sixty-nine years of age, and jealous! not as a tiger, for they say of a tiger, 'jealous as a Dalmatian'; and my man was worse than A Dalmatian, one Dalmatian, he was three and a half Dalmatians at the very least; he was an Uscoque, tricoque, archicoque in a bicoque of a paltry little place like Zara " "Horrid fellow, and 'horrider bellow," put in Mistigris.
"My pupil here," said Bridau, "Monsieur Leon de Lora, shows a remarkable talent for portraiture. He would be too happy, I know, to leave you a souvenir of our stay by painting your charming head, madame." Joseph Bridau made a sign to Mistigris which meant: "Come, sail in, and push the matter; she is not so bad in looks, this woman."
"And Monsieur Schinner was not addressing himself to you in particular," added Georges. "'Tisn't polite to interrupt," said Mistigris, sententiously, "but we all do it, and conversation would lose a great deal if we didn't scatter little condiments while exchanging our reflections. Therefore, continue, agreeable old gentleman, to lecture us, if you like.
"I don't want my affair with Lord Byron talked about." "But you must own, all the same, that you were glad enough I knew how to box," said Mistigris. From time to time, Pierrotin exchanged sly glances with the count, which might have made less inexperienced persons than the five other travellers uneasy. "Lords, pachas, and thirty-thousand-franc ceilings!" he cried.
"How he does spend money!" he said, looking at Colonel Georges. "Eight francs for Alicante and the cheese-cakes; forty sous for cigars; and his breakfast will cost him " "Ten francs at least," replied Mistigris; "but that's how things are. 'Sharp stomachs make short purses." "Come, Pere Leger, let us drink a bottle of Bordeaux together," said Georges to the farmer.
The count returned to his seat and the coucou rolled on amid the deepest silence. "Well, my friends," said the count, when they reached the Carreau woods, "here we all are, as silent as if we were going to the scaffold." "'Silence gives content," muttered Mistigris. "The weather is fine," said Georges.
We both love art, and, above all, artists," she added in a mincing tone; "and I beg you to make yourselves at home here. In the country, you know, every one should be at their ease; one must feel wholly at liberty, or life is too insipid. We have already had Monsieur Schinner with us." Mistigris gave a sly glance at his companion.
"Yes, very," replied the other. "We seem to have got here too early," pursued Mistigris. "Couldn't we get a mouthful somewhere? My stomach, like Nature, abhors a vacuum." "Have we time to get a cup of coffee?" said the artist, in a gentle voice, to Pierrotin. "Yes, but don't be long," answered the latter.
"We lack Mistigris, now famous under his own name of Leon de Lora," said Joseph Bridau, "and the little young man who was stupid enough to talk to the count about those skin diseases which are now cured, and about his wife, whom he has recently left that he may die in peace." "And the count himself, you lack him," said old Reybert.
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