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Dick started. “Armand de Fontonelles!” He remembered that she had repeated that name.

“Who’s he?” he demanded abruptly.

“The first Comte de Fontonelles! When monsieur knows that the first comte has been dead three hundred years, he will see the imbecility of the affair!”

“Wot did he come back for?” growled Dick.

“Ah! it was a legend. Consider its artfulness! The Comte Armand had been a hard liver, a dissipated scoundrel, a reckless beast, but a mighty hunter of the stag. It was said that on one of these occasions he had been warned by the apparition of St. Hubert; but he had laughed,–for, observe, HE always jeered at the priests too; hence this story!–and had declared that the flaming cross seen between the horns of the sacred stag was only the torch of a poacher, and he would shoot it! Good! the body of the comte, dead, but without a wound, was found in the wood the next day, with his discharged arquebus in his hand. The Archbishop of Rouen refused his body the rites of the Church until a number of masses were said every year and–paid for! One understands! one sees their ‘little game;’ the count now appears,–he is in purgatory! More masses,–more money! There you are. Bah! One understands, too, that the affair takes place, not in a cafe like this,–not in a public place,–but at a chateau of the noblesse, and is seen by–the proprietor checked the characters on his fingers–TWO retainers; one young demoiselle of the noblesse, daughter of the chatelaine herself; and, my faith, it goes without saying, by a fat priest, the Cure! In effect, two interested ones! And the priest,–his lie is magnificent! Superb! For he saw the comte in the picture-gallery,–in effect, stepping into his frame!”

“Oh, come off the roof,” said Dick impatiently; “they must have seen SOMETHING, you know. The young lady wouldn’t lie!”

Monsieur Ribaud leaned over, with a mysterious, cynical smile, and lowering his voice said:–

“You have reason to say so. You have hit it, my friend. There WAS a something! And if we regard the young lady, you shall hear. The story of Mademoiselle de Fontonelles is that she has walked by herself alone in the garden,–you observe, ALONE–in the moonlight, near the edge of the wood. You comprehend? The mother and the Cure are in the house,–for the time effaced! Here at the edge of the wood–though why she continues, a young demoiselle, to the edge of the wood does not make itself clear–she beholds her ancestor, as on a pedestal, young, pale, but very handsome and exalte,–pardon!”

“Nothing,” said Dick hurriedly; “go on!”

“She beseeches him why! He says he is lost! She faints away, on the instant, there–regard me!–ON THE EDGE OF THE WOOD, she says. But her mother and Monsieur le Cure find her pale, agitated, distressed, ON THE SOFA IN THE SALON. One is asked to believe that she is transported through the air–like an angel–by the spirit of Armand de Fontonelles. Incredible!”

“Well, wot do YOU think?” said Dick sharply.

The cafe proprietor looked around him carefully, and then lowered his voice significantly:–

“A lover!”

“A what?” said Dick, with a gasp.

“A lover!” repeated Ribaud. “You comprehend! Mademoiselle has no dot,–the property is nothing,–the brother has everything. A Mademoiselle de Fontonelles cannot marry out of her class, and the noblesse are all poor. Mademoiselle is young,–pretty, they say, of her kind. It is an intolerable life at the old chateau; mademoiselle consoles herself!”

Monsieur Ribaud never knew how near he was to the white road below the railing at that particular moment. Luckily, Dick controlled himself, and wisely, as Monsieur Ribaud’s next sentence showed him.

“A romance,–an innocent, foolish liaison, if you like,–but, all the same, if known of a Mademoiselle de Fontonelles, a compromising, a fatal entanglement. There you are. Look! for this, then, all this story of cock and bulls and spirits! Mademoiselle has been discovered with her lover by some one. This pretty story shall stop their mouths!”