"
"Neither one thing nor the other, Monsieur," he answered; "I meant only
that we could not tell what use he might make of riches."
"And who is he?" I inquired.
"The Count de St. Alyre."
"Oh! The Count! You are quite sure?" I asked, very eagerly.
It was now the innkeeper's turn to look at me.
"_Quite_ sure, Monsieur, the Count de St. Alyre."
"Do you see much of him in this part of the world?"
"Not a great deal, Monsieur; he is often absent for a considerable
time."
"And is he poor?" I inquired.
"I pay rent to him for this house. It is not much; but I find he cannot
wait long for it," he replied, smiling satirically.
"From what I have heard, however, I should think he cannot be very
poor?" I continued.
"They say, Monsieur, he plays. I know not. He certainly is not rich.
About seven months ago, a relation of his died in a distant place. His
body was sent to the Count's house here, and by him buried in Pere la
Chaise, as the poor gentleman had desired. The Count was in profound
affliction; although he got a handsome legacy, they say, by that death.
But money never seems to do him good for any time."
"He is old, I believe?"
"Old? We call him the 'Wandering Jew,' except, indeed, that he has not
always the five _sous_ in his pocket.
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