"
"And the work?"
"A mere nothing. Think, there are eighteen of us to serve only
two persons, the count and Mademoiselle Marguerite. But then
there is never any pleasure, never any amusement here."
"What! is one bored then?"
"Bored to death. This grand house is worse than a tomb. No
receptions, no dinners--nothing. Would you believe it, I have
never seen the reception-rooms! They are always closed; and the
furniture is dropping to pieces under its coverings. There are
not three visitors in the course of a month."
She was evidently incensed, and the new footman seemed to share
her indignation. "Why, how is it?" he exclaimed. "Is the count
an owl? A man who's not yet fifty years old, and who's said to be
worth several millions."
"Yes, millions; you may safely say it--and perhaps ten, perhaps
twenty millions too."
"Then all the more reason why there should be something going on
here. What does he do with himself alone, all the blessed day?"
"Nothing. He reads in the library, or wanders about the garden.
Sometimes, in the evening, he drives with Mademoiselle Marguerite
to the Bois de Boulogne in a closed carriage; but that seldom
happens. Besides, there is no such thing as teasing the poor man.
I've been in the house for six months, and I've never heard him
say anything but: 'yes'; 'no'; 'do this'; 'very well'; 'retire.'
You would think these are the only words he knows. Ask M.
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