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“Will you answer a question?” said Molyneux mildly.

“Oh, with pleasure, monsieur.”

“Were you ever a barber?”

“No, monsieur,” laughed the young man.

“Pah!” exclaimed Bantison. “Let me question him. Now, fellow, a confession may save you from jail. Do you deny you are Beaucaire?”

“Deny to a such judge?”

“Ha!” said Bantison. “What more do you want, Molyneux? Fellow, do you deny that you came to London in the ambassador’s suite?”

“No, I do not deny.”

“He admits it! Didn’t you come as his barber?”

“Yes, my frien’, as his barber.” Lady Mary cried out faintly, and, shuddering, put both hands over her eyes.

“I’m sorry,” said Molyneux. “You fight like a gentleman.”

“I thank you, monsieur.”

“You called yourself Beaucaire?”

“Yes, monsieur.” He was swaying to and fro; his servants ran to support him.

“I wish–” continued Molyneux, hesitating. “Evil take me!–but I’m sorry you’re hurt.”

“Assist Sir Hugh into my carriage,” said Lady Mary.

“Farewell, mademoiselle!” M. Beaucaire’s voice was very faint. His eyes were fixed upon her face. She did not look toward him.

They were propping Sir Hugh on the cushions. The Duke rode up close to Beaucaire, but Francois seized his bridle fiercely, and forced the horse back on its haunches.

“The man’s servants worship him,” said Molyneux.

“Curse your insolence!” exclaimed the Duke. “How much am I to bear from this varlet and his varlets? Beaucaire, if you have not left Bath by to-morrow noon, you will be clapped into jail, and the lashing you escaped to-night shall be given you thrice tenfold!”

“I shall be-in the–Assemily–Room’ at nine–o’clock, one week –from–to-night,” answered the young man, smiling jauntily, though his lips were colorless. The words cost him nearly all his breath and strength. “You mus’ keep–in the–backgroun’, monsieur. Ha, ha!” The door of the coach closed with a slam.

“Mademoiselle–fare–well!”

“Drive on!” said Lady Mary.

M. Beaucaire followed the carriage with his eyes. As the noise of the wheels and the hoof-beats of the accompanying cavalcade grew fainter in the distance, the handkerchief he had held against his side dropped into the white dust, a heavy red splotch.

“Only–roses,” he gasped, and fell back in the arms of his servants.

Chapter Five

Beau Nash stood at the door of the rooms, smiling blandly upon a dainty throng in the pink of its finery and gay furbelows. The great exquisite bent his body constantly in a series of consummately adjusted bows: before a great dowager, seeming to sweep the floor in august deference; somewhat stately to the young bucks; greeting the wits with gracious friendliness and a twinkle of raillery; inclining with fatherly gallantry before the beauties; the degree of his inclination measured the altitude of the recipient as accurately as a nicely calculated sand-glass measures the hours.

The King of Bath was happy, for wit, beauty, fashion–to speak more concretely: nobles, belles, gamesters, beaux, statesmen, and poets –made fairyland (or opera bouffe, at least) in his dominions; play ran higher and higher, and Mr. Nash’s coffers filled up with gold. To crown his pleasure, a prince of the French blood, the young Comte de Beaujolais, just arrived from Paris, had reached Bath at noon in state, accompanied by the Marquis de Mirepoix, the ambassador of Louis XV. The Beau dearly prized the society of the lofty, and the present visit was an honor to Bath: hence to the Master of Ceremonies. What was better, there would be some profitable hours with the cards and dice. So it was that Mr. Nash smiled never more benignly than on that bright evening. The rooms rang with the silvery voices of women and delightful laughter, while the fiddles went merrily, their melodies chiming sweetly with the joyance of his mood.

The skill and brazen effrontery of the ambassador’s scoundrelly servant in passing himself off for a man of condition formed the point of departure for every conversation. It was discovered that there were but three persons present who had not suspected him from the first; and, by a singular paradox, the most astute of all proved to be old Mr. Bicksit, the traveler, once a visitor at Chateaurien; for he, according to report, had by a coup of diplomacy entrapped the impostor into an admission that there was no such place. However, like poor Captain Badger, the worthy old man had held his peace out of regard for the Duke of Winterset. This nobleman, heretofore secretly disliked, suspected of irregular devices at play, and never admired, had won admiration and popularity by his remorse for the mistake, and by the modesty of his attitude in endeavoring to atone for it, without presuming upon the privilege of his rank to laugh at the indignation of society; an action the more praiseworthy because his exposure of the impostor entailed the disclosure of his own culpability in having stood the villain’s sponsor. To-night, the happy gentleman, with Lady Mary Carlisle upon his arm, went grandly about the rooms, sowing and reaping a harvest of smiles. ‘Twas said work would be begun at once to rebuild the Duke’s country seat, while several ruined Jews might be paid out of prison. People gazing on the beauty and the stately but modest hero by her side, said they would make a noble pair. She had long been distinguished by his attentions, and he had come brilliantly out of the episode of the Frenchman, who had been his only real rival. Wherever they went, there arose a buzz of pleasing gossip and adulation. Mr. Nash, seeing them near him, came forward with greetings. A word on the side passed between the nobleman and the exquisite.