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Little Louis Quillan had drawn an audible breath at first sight of the newcomer. Monsieur Quillan did not speak, however, but merely waited.

“You have fattened,” the Prince de G�tinais said, at last, “I wish I could fatten. It is incredible that a man who eats pounds of sugar daily should yet remain a skeleton.” His voice was guttural, and a peculiar slur ran through his speech, caused by the loss of his upper front teeth at Ramillies.

Louis Quillan came of a stock not lightly abashed. “I have fattened on a new diet, monsieur,–on happiness. But, ma foi! I am discourteous. Permit me, my father, to present Mademoiselle Nelchen Thorn, who has so far honored me as to consent to become my wife. ‘Nelchen, I present to you my father, the Prince de G�tinais.”

“Oh–?” observed Nelchen, midway in her courtesy.

But the Prince had taken her fingers and he kissed them quite as though they had been the finger-tips of the all-powerful Pompadour at Versailles yonder. “I salute the future Marquise de Soyecourt. You young people will sup with me, then?”

“No, monseigneur, for I am to wait upon the table,” said Nelchen, “and Father is at Sigéan overnight, having the mare shod, and there is only Leon, and, oh, thank you very much indeed, monseigneur, but I had much rather wait on the table.”

The Prince waved his hand. “My valet, mademoiselle, is at your disposal. Vanringham!” he called.

From the corridor above descended a tall red-headed fellow in black. “Monseigneur–?”

“Go!” quickly said Louis de Soyecourt, while the Prince spoke with his valet,–“go, Nelchen, and make yourself even more beautiful if such a thing be possible. He will never resist you, my dear–ah, no, that is out of nature.”

“You will find more plates in the cupboard, Monsieur Vanringham,” remarked Nelchen, as she obediently tripped up the stairway, toward her room in the right wing. “And the knives and forks are in the second drawer.”

So Vanringham laid two covers in discreet silence; then bowed and withdrew by the side door that led to the kitchen. The Prince had seated himself beside the open fire, where he yawned and now looked up with a smile.

“Well, Louis,” said the Prince de G�tinais–“so Monsieur de Puysange and I have run you to earth at last. And I find you have determined to defy me, eh?”

III

“I trust there is no question of defiance,” Louis de Soyecourt equably returned. “Yet I regret you should have been at pains to follow me, since I still claim the privilege of living out my life in my own fashion.”

“You claim a right which never existed, my little son. It is not demanded of any man that he be happy, whereas it is manifestly necessary for a gentleman to obey his God, his King, and his own conscience without swerving. If he also find time for happiness, well and good; otherwise, he must be unhappy. But, above all, he must intrepidly play out his allotted part in the good God’s scheme of things, and must with due humbleness recognize that the happiness or the unhappiness of any man alive is a trivial consideration as against the fulfilment of this scheme.”

“You and Nelchen are much at one there,” the Marquis lightly replied; “yet, for my part, I fancy that Providence is not particularly interested in who happens to be the next Grand Duke of Noumaria.”

The Prince struck with his hand upon the arm of his chair. “You dare to jest! Louis, your levity is incorrigible. France is beaten, discredited among nations, naked to her enemies. She lies here, between England and Prussia, as in a vise. God summons you, a Frenchman, to reign in Noumaria, and in addition affords you a chance to marry that weathercock of Badenburg’s daughter. Ah, He never spoke more clearly, Louis. And you would reply with a shallow jest! Why, Badenburg and Noumaria just bridge that awkward space between France and Austria. Your accession would confirm the Empress,–Gaston de Puysange has it in her own hand, yonder at Versailles! I tell you it is all planned that France and Austria will combine, Louis! Think of it,–our France on her feet again, mistress of Europe, and every whit of it your doing, Louis,–ah, my boy, my boy, you cannot refuse!”