lime in my sentiments as M. de Hausee, but I could be unusually
faithful to that charming, beautiful creature. Isn't there a crease
under my left arm? Hold the glass for me."

Isidore held the glass while Castrillon, with knit brows, studied the
back view of his coat.

"The coat is perfect," said Isidore; "you have no heart or you would
never find fault with such a back."

"Would you call me heartless?"

"I couldn't call you anything else," replied the valet, bluntly.

"Then why have you been with me, cat-fish, ever since I was born?"

The Marquis had a stock of names for his servant, none of which he
employed unless he felt in a good humour. Owl-pig, hog-mouse, ape-dog,
rat-weasel, and cat-fish were the highest expressions of his amiability
toward the man who had been his ill-tempered, dishonest, impudent, and
treacherous attendant all the years of his life.

"You know, mule-viper," he continued, "that no one else would keep you
for five minutes. You are a liar, a thief, and a traitor. Yet I endure
you. I agree that I must be either heartless or an idiot to put up with
such a rogue."

Isidore grew livid, muttered blasphemies under his breath, and put pink
cotton-wool in the toes of his master's dancing-shoes. Castrillon then
kicked him into the adjoining room and resumed his gymnastic exercises.
At the end of half an hour, the man re-entered carrying a note
fastidiously between his left thumb and forefinger.

"Is that for me?" asked the Marquis, who was in the act of turning a
double somersault with much agility.

"It is for Monsieur."

"Then read it aloud while I stand on my head."

Isidore tore it open and began to read as follows:--

"_Do not misjudge me----_"

"Stop!" exclaimed Castrillon, falling upon his feet at once; "that is
from a woman. Why didn't you say so?"

"It is from Madame Parflete," replied Isidore.

"Impossible!" said Castrillon, snatching it from his hand; "impossible!"

He read the letter, flushed to the roots of his hair, and kicked Isidore
for the second time.

"You beast!" said he; "where did you get this? It is her writing, but
she never wrote it--never on God's earth! Where did you get it?"

"It was given to me by one of her servants."

"Why the devil do you tell me such lies?" exclaimed the young man in a
fury; "it's some d----d practical joke in the most infernal bad taste,
and, by God! I have a mind to shoot you."

Castrillon was not given to the utterance of vain