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“There is one more thing to say, that is all. I have said I learn’ a secret, and use it to make a man introduce me if I will not tell. He has absolve’ me of that promise. My frien’s, I had not the wish to ruin that man. I was not receive’; Meestaire Nash had reboff me; I had no other way excep’ to use this fellow. So I say, ‘Take me to Lady Malbourne’s ball as “Chateaurien.”‘ I throw off my wig, and shave, and behol’, I am M. le Duc de Castle Nowhere. Ha, ha! You see?”

The young man’s manner suddenly changed. He became haughty, menacing. He stretched out his arm, and pointed at Winterset. “Now I am no ‘Beaucaire,’ messieurs. I am a French gentleman. The man who introduce’ me at the price of his honor, and then betray’ me to redeem it, is that coward, that card-cheat there!”

Winterset made a horrible effort to laugh. The gentlemen who surrounded him fell away as from pestilence. “A French gentleman!” he sneered savagely, and yet fearfully. “I don’t know who you are. Hide behind as many toys and ribbons as you like; I’ll know the name of the man who dares bring such a charge!”

“Sir!” cried de Mirepoix sharply, advancing a step towards him; but he checked himself at once. He made a low bow of state, first to the young Frenchman, then to Lady Mary and the company. “Permit me, Lady Mary and gentlemen,” he said, “to assume the honor of presenting you to His Highness, Prince Louis-Philippe de Valois, Duke of Orleans, Duke of Chartres, Duke of Nemours, Duke of Montpeti’sier, First Prince of the Blood Royal, First Peer of France, Lieutenant-General of French Infantry, Governor of Dauphine, Knight of the Golden Fleece, Grand Master of the Order of Notre Dame, of Mount Carmel, and of St. Lazarus in Jerusalem; and cousin to His most Christian Majesty, Louis the Fifteenth, King of France.”

“Those are a few of my brother’s names,” whispered Henri of Beaujolais to Molyneux. “Old Mirepoix has the long breath, but it take’ a strong man two day’ to say all of them. I can suppose this Winterset know’ now who bring the charge!”

“Castle Nowhere!” gasped Beau Nash, falling back upon the burly prop of Mr. Bantison’s shoulder.

“The Duke of Orleans will receive a message from me within the hour!” said Winterset, as he made his way to the door. His face was black with rage and shame.

“I tol’ you that I would not soil my hand with you,” answered the young man. “If you send a message no gentleman will bring it. Whoever shall bear it will receive a little beating from Francois.”

He stepped to Lady Mary’s side. Her head was bent low, her face averted. She seemed to breathe with difficulty, and leaned heavily upon a chair. “Monseigneur,” she faltered in a half whisper, “can you–forgive me? It is a bitter–mistake-I have made. Forgive.”

“Forgive?” he answered, and his voice was as broken as hers; but he went on, more firmly: “It is–nothing–less than nothing. There is–only jus’ one–in the–whole worl’ who would not have treat’ me the way that you treat’ me. It is to her that I am goin’ to make reparation. You know something, Henri? I am not goin’ back only because the king forgive’ me. I am goin’ to please him; I am goin’ to espouse mademoiselle, our cousin. My frien’s, I ask your felicitations.”

“And the king does not compel him!” exclaimed young Henri.

“Henri, you want to fight me?” cried his brother sharply. “Don’ you think the King of France is a wiser man than me?”

He offered his hand to Lady Mary. “Mademoiselle is fatigue’. Will she honor me?”

He walked with her to the door. Her hand fluttering faintly in his. From somewhere about the garments of one of them a little cloud of faded rose-leaves fell, and lay strewn on the floor behind them. He opened the door, and the lights shone on a multitude of eager faces turned toward it. There was a great hum of voices, and, over all, the fiddles wove a wandering air, a sweet French song of the voyageur.

He bowed very low, as, with fixed and glistening eyes, Lady Mary Carlisle, the Beauty of Bath, passed slowly by him and went out of the room.