e best part of the story is that
the little Count Adriani is the Nuncio's own nephew, and that at the
Duchess's last party--she is called 'the Duchess' in Academic circles
just as she is at Mousseaux--he told his adventure quite naively in his
broken French. Lavaux imitates it wonderfully.

In the midst of the laughter and the exclamations, 'Charming! Ah, what
a man Lavaux is!' etc., I asked Madame Ancelin, who was sitting near me,
who Lavaux was, and what he did. The good lady was amazed. 'Lavaux? You
don't know him? He is the Duchess's zebra.' Thereupon she departed in
pursuit of Danjou, and left me much the wiser! Really Parisian society
is a most extraordinary thing; its vocabulary alters every season.
Zebra--a zebra--what can it possibly mean? But I began to see that I was
staying much too long, and that my old master was not going to appear;
it was time I went. I made my way through the chairs to say good-bye to
my hostess, and as I passed saw Mademoiselle Moser whimpering before
Bretigny's white waistcoat. Poor Moser became a candidate ten years ago,
and now has lost all hopes. So he goes nowhere himself, but sends his
daughter, a lady of a certain age, not at all pretty, who plays the part
of Antigone, climbs up to the top floors, makes herself general
messenger and drudge to the Academicians and their wives, corrects
proofs, nurses the rheumatic, and spends her forlorn maidenhood in
running after the Academic chair which her father will never get.
Dressed quietly in black, with an unbecoming bonnet, she stood in the
doorway; and near her was Dalzon, very much excited, between two members
of the Academie who looked judicial. He was protesting violently and
with a choking voice. 'It's not true, it's a shame, I never wrote it!'
Here was a mystery; and Madame Astier, who might have enlightened me,
was herself engaged in close confabulation with Lavaux and the Prince
d'Athis. You must have seen the Prince d'Athis driving about Mousseaux
with the Duchess. 'Sammy,' as he is called, is a long, thin, bald man,
with stooping shoulders, a crinkled face as white as wax, and a black
beard reaching half down his chest, as if his hair, falling from his
head, had lodged upon his chin. He never speaks, and when he looks at
you seems shocked at your daring to breathe the same air as he. He is
high in the service, has a close, mysterious, English air which reminds
you that he is Lord Palmerston's great-nephew, and is in high reput