hundred and fifty
francs, sent down by Monsieur Bordin of Paris, the last of the
/procureurs du Chatelet/. Every one knew these details because the
chevalier exacted the utmost secrecy from the persons to whom he first
confided them.

Monsieur de Valois gathered the fruit of his misfortunes. His place at
table was laid in all the most distinguished houses in Alencon, and he
was bidden to all soirees. His talents as a card-player, a narrator,
an amiable man of the highest breeding, were so well known and
appreciated that parties would have seemed a failure if the dainty
connoisseur was absent. Masters of houses and their wives felt the
need of his approving grimace. When a young woman heard the chevalier
say at a ball, "You are delightfully well-dressed!" she was more
pleased at such praise than she would have been at mortifying a rival.
Monsieur de Valois was the only man who could perfectly pronounce
certain phrases of the olden time. The words, "my heart," "my jewel,"
"my little pet," "my queen," and the amorous diminutives of 1770, had
a grace that was quite irresistible when they came from his lips. In
short, the chevalier had the privilege of superlatives. His
compliments, of which he was stingy, won the good graces of all the
old women; he made himself agreeable to every one, even to the
officials of the government, from whom he wanted nothing. His behavior
at cards had a lofty distinction which everybody noticed: he never
complained; he praised his adversaries when they lost; he did not
rebuke or teach his partners by showing them how they ought to have
played. When, in the course of a deal, those sickening dissertations
on the game would take place, the chevalier invariably drew out his
snuff-box with a gesture that was worthy of Mole, looked at the
Princess Goritza, raised the cover with dignity, shook, sifted, massed
the snuff, and gathered his pinch, so that by the time the cards were
dealt he had decorated both nostrils and replaced the princess in his
waistcoat pocket,--always on his left side. A gentleman of the "good"
century (in distinction from the "grand" century) could alone have
invented that compromise between contemptuous silence and a sarcasm
which might not have been understood. He accepted poor players and
knew how to make the best of them. His delightful equability of temper
made many persons say,--

"I do admire the Chevalier de Valois!"

His conversation, his manners, seemed bland, like