The Count

PASCAL AND MARGUERITE.




I.


It was a Thursday evening, the fifteenth of October; and although only
half-past six o'clock, it had been dark for some time already. The
weather was cold, and the sky was as black as ink, while the wind blew
tempestuously, and the rain fell in torrents.

The servants at the Hotel de Chalusse, one of the most magnificent
mansions in the Rue de Courcelles in Paris, were assembled in the
porter's lodge, a little building comprising a couple of rooms standing
on the right hand side of the great gateway. Here, as in all large
mansions, the "concierge" or porter, M. Bourigeau, was a person of
immense importance, always able and disposed to make any one who was
inclined to doubt his authority, feel it in cruel fashion. As could be
easily seen, he held all the other servants in his power. He could
let them absent themselves without leave, if he chose, and conceal all
returns late at night after the closing of public balls and wine-shops.
Thus, it is needless to say that M. Bourigeau and his wife were treated
by their fellow-servants with the most servile adulation.

The owner of the house was not at home that evening, so that M. Casimir,
the count's head valet, was serving coffee for the benefit of all the
retainers. And while the company sipped the fragrant beverage which had
been generously tinctured with cognac, provided by the butler, they all
united in abusing their common enemy, the master of the house. For the
time being, a pert little waiting-maid, with an odious turn-up nose, had
the floor. She was addressing her remarks to a big, burly, and rather
insolent-looking fellow, who had been added only the evening before to
the corps of footmen. "The place is really intolerable," she was saying.
"The wages are high, the food of the very best, the livery just such
as would show off a good-looking man to the best advantage, and Madame
Leon, the housekeeper, who has entire charge of everything, is not too
lynx-eyed."