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“Zounds!” said his Grace of Ormskirk, all alert, “is old Ludwig dead at last? Why, then, the damned must be holding a notable carnival by this, in honor of his arrival. Hey, but there was a merry rascal, a thorough-paced–” He broke off short. He laughed. “What the devil, man! Monsieur de Soyecourt is Ludwig’s nephew, I grant you, on the maternal side, but Ludwig left a son. De Soyecourt remains de Soyecourt so long as Prince Rudolph lives,–and Prince Rudolph is to marry the Elector of Badenburg’s daughter this autumn, so that we may presently look for any number of von Freistadts to perpetuate the older branch. Faith, you should study your Genealogischer Hofkalender more closely, Mr. Vanringham.”

“Oh, but very plainly your Grace has heard no word of the appalling tragedy that hath made our little Louis a reigning monarch–“

With gusto Francis Vanringham narrated the details of Duke Ludwig’s last mad freak [Footnote: In his Journal Horace Calverley gives a long and curious account of the disastrous masque at Breschau of which he, then on the Grand Tour, had the luck to be an eye-witness. His hints as to the part played in the affair by Kaunitz are now, of course, largely discredited by the later confessions of de Puysange.] which, as the world knows, resulted in the death of both Ludwig and his son, as well as that of their five companions in the escapade,–with gusto, for in progress the soul of the former actor warmed to his subject. But Ormskirk was sensibly displeased.

“Behold what is termed a pretty kettle of fish!” said the Duke, in meditation, when Vanringham had made an end. “Plainly, Gaston cannot fight the rascal, since Hop-o’-my-thumb is now, most vexatiously, transformed into a quasi-Royal Personage, Assassination, I fear, is out of the question. So all our English plans will go to pot. A Frenchman will reign in Noumaria,–after we had not only bought old Ludwig, but had paid for him, too! Why, I suppose he gave that damnable masquerade on the strength of having our money,–good English money, mark you, Mr. Vanringham, that we have to squeeze out of honest tax-payers to bribe such, rascals with, only to have them, cheat us by cooking themselves to a crisp! This is annoying, Mr. Vanringham.”

“I don’t entirely follow your Grace–“

“It is not perhaps desirable you should. Yet I give you a key. It is profoundly to be deplored that little Louis de Soyecourt, who cannot draw a contented breath outside of his beloved Paris, should be forced to marry Victoria von Uhm, in his cousin’s place,–yes, for Gaston will arrange that, of course,–and afterward be exiled to a semi-barbarous Noumaria, where he must devote the rest of his existence to heading processions and reviewing troops, and signing proclamations and guzzling beer and sauerkraut. Nay, beyond doubt, Mr. Vanringham, this is deplorable. ‘Tis an appalling condition of affairs: it reminds me of Ovid among the Goths, Mr. Vanringham!”

“I’m to understand, then–?” the valet stammered.

“You are to understand that I am more deeply your debtor than I could desire you to believe; that I am going to tell the Marquis de Soyecourt all which I have told you, though I must reword it for him, as eloquently as may be possible; and that I even now feel myself to be Ciceronic.” The Duke of Ormskirk passed on with a polite nod.

* * * * *

Next day they gossiped busily at Versailles over the sudden disappearance of Louis de Soyecourt. No more was heard of him for months. The mystery was discussed, and by the wits embroidered, and by the imaginative annotated, but it was never solved until the following September.

I

For it was in September that, upon the threshold of the Golden Pomegranate, at Manneville in Poictesme, Monsieur Louis Quillan paused, and gave the contented little laugh which had of late become habitual with him. “We are en fête to-night, it appears. Has the King, then, by any chance dropped in to supper with us, Nelchen?”