“Good morning, Adam,” he said familiarly. Then he bowed courteously as he asked Clementine what he could do for her.
“You are Laginski’s friend!” exclaimed the countess.
“For life and death,” answered Paz, to whom the count threw a smile of affection as he drew a last puff from his perfumed pipe.
“Then why don’t you take your meals with us? why did you not accompany us to Italy and Switzerland? why do you hide yourself in such a way that I am unable to thank you for the constant services that you do for us?” said the countess, with much vivacity of manner but no feeling.
In fact, she thought she perceived in Paz a sort of voluntary servitude. Such an idea carried with it in her mind a certain contempt for a social amphibian, a being half-secretary, half-bailiff, and yet neither the one nor the other, a poor relation, an embarrassing friend.
“Because, countess,” he answered with perfect ease of manner, “there are no thanks due. I am Adam’s friend, and it gives me pleasure to take care of his interests.”
“And you remain standing for your pleasure, too,” remarked Comte Adam.
“I remember seeing you about the time I was married, and afterwards in the courtyard,” said Clementine. “But why do you put yourself in a position of inferiority,--you, Adam’s friend?”
“I am perfectly indifferent to the opinion of the Parisians,” he replied. “I live for myself, or, if you like, for you two.”
“But the opinion of the world as to a friend of my husband is not indifferent to me--”
“Ah, madame, the world will be satisfied if you tell them I am ‘an original.’”
After a moment’s silence he added, “Are you going out to-day?”
“What a good soul he is!” said Adam. “He has all the simplicity of a child.”
“Now tell me all about your relations with him,” said Clementine.