“My child, you are always welcome,” said Eustache Poupin, taking Hyacinth’s hand in both his own and holding it for some moments. An impression had come to our young man, immediately, that they were talking about him before he appeared and that they would rather have been left to talk at their ease. He even thought he saw in Poupin’s face the kind of consciousness that comes from detection, or at least interruption, in a nefarious¹ act. With Poupin, however, it was difficult to tell; he always looked so heated and exalted², so like a conspirator³ defying the approach of justice. Hyacinth contemplated⁴ the others: they were standing⁵ as if they had shuffled⁶ something on the table out of sight, as if they had been engaged in the manufacture of counterfeit⁷ coin. Poupin kept hold of his hand; the Frenchman’s ardent⁸ eyes, fixed⁹, unwinking, always expressive¹¹ of the greatness of the occasion, whatever the occasion was, had never seemed to him to protrude¹² so far from his head. “Ah, my dear friend, nous causions justement de vous,” Eustache remarked, as if this were a very extraordinary fact.

“Oh, nous causions – nous causions!” his wife exclaimed, as if to deprecate an indiscreet exaggeration. “One may mention a friend, I suppose, in the way of conversation, without taking such a liberty.”

“A cat may look at a king, as your English proverb says,” added Schinkel,

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