te"; there "the King" meant Louis XVIII., then at Mittau;
there the Department was still the Province, and the prefecture the
intendance.

The Marquis was honored among them for his admirable behavior, his
loyalty as a noble, his undaunted courage; even as he was respected
throughout the town for his misfortunes, his fortitude, his steadfast
adherence to his political convictions. The man so admirable in
adversity was invested with all the majesty of ruined greatness. His
chivalrous fair-mindedness was so well known, that litigants many a
time had referred their disputes to him for arbitration. All gently bred
Imperialists and the authorities themselves showed as much indulgence
for his prejudices as respect for his personal character; but there was
another and a large section of the new society which was destined to
be known after the Restoration as the Liberal party; and these, with du
Croisier as their unacknowledged head, laughed at an aristocratic oasis
which nobody might enter without proof of irreproachable descent. Their
animosity was all the more bitter because honest country squires and the
higher officials, with a good many worthy folk in the town, were of the
opinion that all the best society thereof was to be found in the Marquis
d'Esgrignon's salon. The prefect himself, the Emperor's chamberlain,
made overtures to the d'Esgrignons, humbly sending his wife (a
Grandlieu) as ambassadress.

Wherefore, those excluded from the miniature provincial Faubourg
Saint-Germain nicknamed the salon "The Collection of Antiquities,"
and called the Marquis himself "M. Carol." The receiver of taxes,
for instance, addressed his applications to "M. Carol (ci-devant des
Grignons)," maliciously adopting the obsolete way of spelling.

"For my own part," said Emile Blondet, "if I try to recall my childhood
memories, I remember that the nickname of 'Collection of Antiquities'
always made me laugh, in spite of my respect--my love, I ought to
say--for Mlle. d'Esgrignon. The Hotel d'Esgrignon stood at the angle of
two of the busiest thoroughfares in the town, and not five hundred paces
away from the market place. Two of the drawing-room windows looked upon
the street and two upon the square; the room was like a glass cage,
every one who came past could look through it from side to side. I was
only a boy of twelve at the time, but I thought, even then, that the
salon was one of those rare curiosities which seem, when you come to