Baptiste Mascarin had been in so many strange situations, from which he had
extricated himself with safety and credit, that he had the fullest self-confidence,
but as he ascended the wide staircase of the Hotel de Mussidan, he felt his heart
beat quicker in anticipation of the struggle that was before him. It was twilight out
of doors, but all within was a blaze of light. The library into which he was ushered
was a vast apartment, furnished in severe taste. At the sound of the
unaristocratic name of Mascarin, which seemed as much out of place as a
drunkard's oath in the chamber of sleeping innocence, M. de Mussidan raised his
head in sudden surprise. The Count was seated at the other end of the room,
reading by the light of four candles placed in a magnificently wrought candelabra.
He threw down his paper, and raising his glasses, gazed with astonishment at
Mascarin, who, with his hat in his hand and his heart in his mouth, slowly crossed
the room, muttering a few unintelligible apologies. He could make nothing,
however, of his visitor, and said, "Whom do you wish to see, sir?"
"The Count de Mussidan," stuttered Mascarin; "and I hope that you will forgive
this intrusion."
The Count cut his excuse short with a haughty wave of his hand. "Wait," said he
imperiously. He then with evident pain rose from his seat, and crossing the room,
rang the bell violently, and then reseated himself. Mascarin, who still remained in
the centre of the room, inwardly wondered if after all he was to be turned out of
the house. In another second the door opened, and the figure of the faithful
Florestan appeared.
"Florestan," said the Count, angrily, "this is the first time that you have permitted
any one to enter this room without my permission; if this occurs again, you leave
my service."
"I assure your lordship," began the man.
"Enough! I have spoken; you know what to expect."
During this brief colloquy, Mascarin studied the Count with the deepest attention.
The Count Octave de Mussidan in no way resembled the man sketched by
Florestan. Since the time of Montaigne, a servant's portrait of his employer
should always be distrusted. The Count looked fully sixty, though he was but fifty
years of age; he was undersized, and he looked shrunk and shrivelled; he was
nearly bald, and his long whiskers were perfectly white. The cares of life had
imprinted deep furrows on his brow, and told too plainly the story of a man who,
having drained the chalice of life to the bottom, was now ready to shiver the
goblet. As Florestan left the room the Count turned to Mascarin, and in the same
glacial tone observed, "And now, sir, explain this intrusion."
Mascarin had often been rebuffed, but never so cruelly as this. His vanity was
sorely wounded, for he was vain, as all are who think that they possess some
hidden influence, and he felt his temper giving way.
