aring, with some reason,
that Pere Leger might be seized with the same curiosity, he took out the
deed of sale for the farm at Moulineaux, put it into his coat pocket,
and entered the inn to keep an eye on the travellers.

"This Georges is neither more nor less than Crottat's second clerk,"
thought he. "I shall pay my compliments to his master, whose business it
was to send me his head-clerk."

From the respectful glances of Pere Leger and Oscar, Georges perceived
that he had made for himself two fervent admirers. Accordingly, he now
posed as a great personage; paid for their cheese-cakes, and ordered
for each a glass of Alicante. He offered the same to Mistigris and his
master, who refused with smiles; but the friend of Ali Tebelen profited
by the occasion to ask the pair their names.

"Oh! monsieur," said Mistigris' master, "I am not blessed, like you,
with an illustrious name; and I have not returned from Asia--"

At this moment the count, hastening into the huge inn-kitchen lest his
absence should excite inquiry, entered the place in time to hear the
conclusion of the young man's speech.

"--I am only a poor painter lately returned from Rome, where I went at
the cost of the government, after winning the 'grand prix' five years
ago. My name is Schinner."

"Hey! bourgeois, may I offer you a glass of Alicante and some
cheese-cakes?" said Georges to the count.

"Thank you," replied the latter. "I never leave home without taking my
cup of coffee and cream."

"Don't you eat anything between meals? How bourgeois, Marais, Place
Royale, that is!" cried Georges. "When he 'blagued' just now about his
crosses, I thought there was something in him," whispered the Eastern
hero to the painter. "However, we'll set him going on his decorations,
the old tallow-chandler! Come, my lad," he added, calling to Oscar,
"drink me down the glass poured out for the chandler; that will start
your moustache."

Oscar, anxious to play the man, swallowed the second glass of wine, and
ate three more cheese-cakes.

"Good wine, that!" said Pere Leger, smacking his lips.

"It is all the better," said Georges, "because it comes from Bercy. I've
been to Alicante myself, and I know that this wine no more resembles
what is made there than my arm is like a windmill. Our made-up wines are
a great deal better than the natural ones in their own country. Come,
Pierrotin, take a glass! It is a great pity your horses can't take one,
too; we might go