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The Englishman’s white lip showed a row of scarlet dots upon it. “How much do you want?” he said.

The room rang with the gay laughter of Beaucaire. “I hol’ your note’ for seven-hunder’ pound’. You can have them, monsieur. Why does a such great man come to play M. Beaucaire? Because no one else willin’ to play M. le Duc–he cannot pay. Ha, ha! So he come’ to good Monsieur Beaucaire. Money, ha, ha! What I want with money?”

His Grace of Winterset’s features were set awry to a sinister pattern. He sat glaring at his companion in a snarling silence.

“Money? Pouf!” snapped the little gambler. “No, no, no! It is that M. le Duc, impoverish’, somewhat in a bad odor as he is, yet command the entree any-where–onless I–Ha, ha! Eh, monsieur?”

“Ha! You dare think to force me–“

M. Beaucaire twirled the tip of his slender mustache around the end of his white forefinger. Then he said: “Monsieur and me goin’ to Lady Malbourne’s ball to-night–M. le Duc and me!”

The Englishman roared, “Curse your impudence!”

“Sit quiet. Oh, yes, that’s all; we goin’ together.”

“No!”

“Certain. I make all my little plan’. ‘Tis all arrange’.” He paused, and then said gravely, “You goin’ present me to Lady Mary Carlisle.”

The other laughed in utter scorn. “Lady Mary Carlisle, of all women alive, would be the first to prefer the devil to a man of no birth, barber.”

“‘Tis all arrange’; have no fear; nobody question monsieur’s You goin’ take me to-night–“

“No!”

“Yes. And after–then I have the entree. Is it much I ask? This one little favor, and I never w’isper, never breathe that–it is to say, I am always forever silent of monsieur’s misfortune.”

“You have the entree!” sneered the other. “Go to a lackeys’ rout and dance with the kitchen maids. If I would, I could not present you to Bath society. I should have cartels from the fathers, brothers, and lovers of every wench and madam in the place, even I. You would be thrust from Lady Malbourne’s door five minutes after you entered it.”

“No, no, no!”

“Half the gentlemen in Bath have been here to play. They would know you, wouldn’t they, fool? You’ve had thousands out of Bantison, Rakell, Guilford, and Townbrake. They would have you lashed by the grooms as your ugly deserts are. You to speak to Lady Mary Carlisle! ‘Od’s blood! You! Also, dolt, she would know you if you escaped the others. She stood within a yard of you when Nash expelled you the pump-room.”

M. Beaucaire flushed slightly. “You think I did not see?” he asked.

“Do you dream that’ because Winterset introduces a low fellow he will be tolerated–that Bath will receive a barber?”

“I have the distinction to call monsieur’s attention,” replied the young man gayly, “I have renounce that profession.”

“Fool!”

“I am now a man of honor!”

“Faugh!”

“A man of the parts,” continued the the young Frenchman, “and of deportment; is it not so? Have you seen me of a fluster, or gross ever, or, what sall I say–bourgeois? Shall you be shame’ for your guest’ manner? No, no! And my appearance, is it of the people? Clearly, no. Do I not compare in taste of apparel with your yo’ng Englishman? Ha, ha! To be hope’. Ha, ha! So I am goin’ talk with Lady Mary Carlisle.”

“Bah!” The Duke made a savage burlesque. “‘Lady Mary Carlisle, may I assume the honor of presenting the barber of the Marquis de Mirepoix?’ So, is it?”

“No, monsieur,” smiled the young man. “Quite not so. You shall have nothing to worry you, nothing in the worl’. I am goin’ to assassinate my poor mustachio–also remove this horrible black peruke, and emerge in my own hair. Behol’!” He swept the heavy curled, mass from his head as he spoke, and his hair, coiled under the great wig, fell to his shoulders, and sparkled yellow in the candle-light. He tossed his head to shake the hair back from his cheeks. “When it is dress’, I am transform nobody can know me; you shall observe. See how little I ask of you, how very little bit. No one shall reco’nize ‘M. Beaucaire’ or ‘Victor.’ Ha, ha! ‘Tis all arrange’; you have nothing to fear.”