and Bismarck to intrigue against the interests of France. The French ambassador, Count Benedetti, interviewed the King of Prussia at Ems and requested him to prevent Prince Leopold von Hohenzollern's acceptance. It is rumoured that the King of Prussia declined to interfere.'"
Madame de Morteyn tossed the journal on to the terrace and opened another.
"'On the 12th of July the Spanish ambassador to Paris informed the Duc de Gramont, Minister of Foreign Affairs, that the Prince von Hohenzollern renounces his candidacy to the Spanish throne.'"
"À la bonheur!" said the vicomte, with a sigh of relief; "that settles the Hohenzollern matter. My dear, can you imagine France permitting a German prince to mount the throne of Spain? It was more than a menace—it was almost an insult. Do you remember Count Bismarck when he was ambassador to France? He is a man who fascinates me. How he used to watch the Emperor! I can see him yet—those puffy, pale eyes! You saw him also, dear—you remember, at Saint-Cloud?"
"Yes; I thought him brusque and malicious."
"I know he is at the bottom of this. I'm glad it is over. Did you finish the telegraphic news?"
"Almost all. It says—dear me, Georges!—it says that the Duc de Gramont refuses to accept any pledge from the Spanish ambassador unless that old Von Werther—the German ambassador, you know—guarantees that Prince Leopold von Hohenzollern will never again attempt to mount the Spanish throne!"
There was a silence. The old vicomte stirred restlessly and knocked over some more chessmen.
"Sufficient unto the day—" he said, at last; "the Duc de Gramont is making a mistake to press the matter. The word of the Spanish ambassador is enough—until he breaks it. General Lebœuf might occupy himself in the interim—profitably, I think."
"General Lebœuf is minister of war. What do you mean, Georges?"
"Yes, dear, Lebœuf is minister of war."
"And you think this German prince may some time again—"
"I think France should be ready if he does. Is she ready? Not if Chanzy and I know a Turco from a Kabyle. Perhaps Count Bismarck wants us to press his king for guarantees. I don't trust him. If he does, we should not oblige him. Gramont is making a grave mistake. Suppose the King of Prussia should refuse and say it is not his affair? Then we would be obliged to accept that answer, or—"
"Or what, Georges?"
"Or—well, my dear—or fight. But Gramont is not wicked enough, nor is France crazy enough, to wish to go to war over a contingency—a possibility that might never happen. I foresee a snub for our ambassador at Ems, but that is all. Do you care to play any more? I tipped over my king and his castles."
"Perhaps it is an omen—the King of Prussia, you know, and his fortresses. I feel superstitious, Georges!"
The vicomte smiled and set the pieces up on their proper squares.
"It is settled; the Spanish ambassador pledges his word that Prince Hohenzollern will not be King of Spain. France should be satisfied. It is my move, I believe, and I move so—check to you, my dear!"
"I resign, dearest. Listen! Here come the children up the terrace steps."
"But—but—Helen, you must not resign so soon. Why should you?"
"Because you are already beaten," she laughed, gently—"your king and his castles and all his men! How headstrong you Chasseurs d'Afrique are!"
"I'm not beaten!" said the old man, stoutly, and leaned closer over the board. Then he also laughed, and said, "Tiens! tiens! tiens!" and his wife rose and gave him her arm. Two pretty girls came running up the terrace, and the old vicomte stood up, crying: "Children! Naughty ones! I see you coming! Madame de Morteyn has beaten me at chess. Laugh if you dare! Betty Castlemaine, I see you smiling!"
"I?" laughed that young lady, turning her flushed face from her aunt to her uncle.
"Yes, you did," repeated the vicomte, "and you are not the niece that I love any more. Where have you been? And you, Dorothy Marche?—your hair is very much tangled."
"We have been lunching by the Lisse," said Dorothy, "and Jack caught a gudgeon; here it is."
"Pooh!" said the old vicomte; "I must show them how to fish. Helen, I shall go fishing—"
"Some time," said his wife, gently. "Betty, where are the men?"
"Jack and Barbara Lisle are fishing; Sir Thorald and Lady Hesketh are in the green boat, and Ricky is rowing them. The others are somewhere. Ricky got a telegram, and must go to Berlin."
"Tell Rickerl von Elster that his king is making mischief," laughed the vicomte, "and he may go back to Berlin when he chooses." Then, smiling at the young, flushed faces, he leaned on his wife's arm and passed slowly along the terrace towards the house.
"I wonder why Lorraine has not come?" he said to his wife. "Won't she come to-night for the dance?"
"Lorraine is a very sweet but a very uncertain girl," replied Madame de Morteyn. She led him through the great bay-window opening on the terrace, drew his easy-chair before his desk, placed the journals before him, and, stooping, kissed him.
"If you want me, send Charles. I really ought to be with the young people a moment. I wonder why Ricky must leave?"
"How far away are you going, Helen?"
"Only to the Lisse."
"Then I shall read about Monsieur Bismarck and his Spanish friends until you come. The day is long without you."
They smiled at each other, and she sat down by the window.
"Read," she said; "I can see my children from here. I wonder why Ricky is leaving?"
Suddenly, in the silence of the summer noon, far in the east, a dull sound shook the stillness. Again they heard it—again, and again—a deep boom, muttering, reverberating like summer thunder.
"Why should they fire cannon to-day, Helen?" asked the old man, querulously. "Why should they fire cannon beyond the Rhine?"
"It is thunder," she said, gently; "it will storm before long."
"I am tired," said the vicomte. "Helen, I shall sleep. Sit by me—so—no—nearer yet! Are the children happy?"
"Yes, dear."
"When the cannon cease, I shall fall asleep. Listen! what is that?"
"A blackbird singing in the pear-tree."
"And what is that—that sound of galloping? Look out and see, Helen."
"It is a gendarme riding fast towards the Rhine."
CHAPTER IV
THE FARANDOLE
That evening Dorothy Marche stood on the terrace in the moonlight waving her plumed fan and listening to the orchestra from the hamlet of Saint-Lys. The orchestra—two violins, a reed-pipe, a biniou, and a harp—were playing away with might and main. Through the bay-window she could see the crystal chandeliers glittering with prismatic light, the slender gilded chairs, the cabinets and canapés, golden, backed with tapestry; and everywhere massed banks of ferns and
