the curl of the servant's lip, Balsamo saw that she was not insensible to the humiliations from her proud superior. But the expression flitted; and to hide a tear, perhaps, the girl looked aside to a window on the yard. Everything interested the visitor, and he perceived a man's face at the panes.
Each in this curious abode had a secret, he thought; "I hope not to be an hour here without learning Andrea's. Already I know her father's, and I guess Nicole's."
Taverney perceived his short absence of mind.
"What! are you dreaming?" he questioned. "We are all at it, here; but you might have waited for bedtime. Reverie is a catching complaint. My daughter broods; Nicole is wool-gathering; and I get puzzling about that dawdler who killed these birds—and dreams when he kills them. Gilbert is a philosopher, like Labrie. I hope you are not friendly with them? I forewarn you that philosophers do not go down with me."
"They are neither friends nor foes to me," replied the visitor; "I do not have anything to do with them."
"Very good. Zounds, they are scoundrelly vermin, more venomous than ugly. They will ruin the monarchy with their maxims, like 'People can hardly be virtuous under a monarchy;' or, 'Genuine monarchy is an institution devised to corrupt popular manners, and make slaves;' or yet, 'Royal authority may come by the grace of God, but so do plagues and miseries of mankind.' Pretty flummery, all this! What good would a virtuous people be, I beg? Things are going to the bad, since his Majesty spoke to Voltaire and read Diderot's book."
At this Balsamo fancied again to spy the pale face at the window, but it vanished as soon as he fixed his eyes upon it.
"Is your daughter a philosopher?" he asked, smiling.
"I do not know what philosophy is; I only know that I like serious matters," was Andrea's reply.
"The most serious thing is to live; stick to that," said her father.
"But the young lady cannot hate life," said the stranger.
"All depends," she said.
"Another stupid saying," interrupted Taverney. "That is just the nonsense my son talks. I have the misfortune to have a son. The Viscount of Taverney is cornet in the dauphin's horse-guards—a nice boy; another philosopher! The other day he talked to me about doing away with negro slavery. 'What are we to do for sugar?' I retorted, for I like my coffee heavily sweetened, as does Louis XV. 'We must do without sugar to benefit a suffering race.' 'Suffering monkeys!' I returned, 'and that is paying them a compliment.' Whereupon he asserted that all men were brothers! Madness must be in the air. I, brother of a blackamoor!"
"This is going too far," observed Balsamo.
"Of course. I told you I was in luck. My children are—one an angel, the other an apostle. Drink, though my wine is detestable."
"I think it exquisite," said the guest, watching Andrea.
"Then you are a philosopher! In my time we learnt pleasant things; we played cards, fought duels, though against the law; and wasted our time on duchesses and money on opera dancers. That is my story in a nutshell. Taverney went wholly into the opera-house; which is all I sorrow for, since a poor noble is nothing of a man. I look aged, do I not? Only because I am impoverished and dwell in a kennel, with a tattered wig, and gothic coat; but my friend the marshal duke, with his house in town and two hundred thousand a year—he is young, in his new clothes and brushed up perukes—he is still alert, brisk and pleasure-seeking, though ten years my senior, my dear sir, ten years."
"I am astonished that, with powerful friends like the Duke of Richelieu, you quitted the court."
"Only a temporary retreat, and I am going back one day," said the lord, darting a strange glance on his daughter, which the visitor intercepted.
"But, I suppose, the duke befriends your son?"
"He holds the son of his friend in horror, for he is a philosopher, and he execrates them."
"The feeling is reciprocal," observed Andrea with perfect calm. "Clear away, Legay!"
Startled from her vigilant watch on the window, the maid ran back to the table.
"We used to stay at the board to two A. M. We had luxuries for supper, then, that's why! and we drank when we could eat no more. But how can one drink vinegar when there is nothing to eat? Legay, let us have the Maraschino, provided there is any."
"Liqueurs," said Andrea to the maid, who took her orders from the baron thus second-hand.
Her master sank back in his armchair and sighed with grotesque melancholy while keeping his eyes closed.
"Albeit the duke may execrate your son—quite right, too, as he is a philosopher," said Balsamo, "he ought to preserve his liking for you, who are nothing of the kind. I presume you have claims on the king, whom you must have served?"
"Fifteen years in the army. I was the marshal's aid-de-camp, and we went through the Mahon campaign together. Our friendship dates from—let me see! the famous siege of Philipsburg, 1742 to 1743."
"Yes, I was there, and remember you——"
"You remember me at the siege? Why, what is your age?"
"Oh, I am no particular age," replied the guest, holding up his glass to be filled by Andrea's fair hand.
The host interpreted that his guest did not care to tell his years.
"My lord, allow me to say that you do not seem to have been a soldier, then, as it is twenty-eight years ago, and you are hardly over thirty."
Andrea regarded the stranger with the steadfastness of deep curiosity; he came out in a different light every instant.
"I know what I am talking about the famous siege, where the Duke of Richelieu killed in a duel his cousin the Prince of Lixen. The encounter came off on the highway, by my fay! on our return from the outposts; on the embankment, to the left, he ran him through the body. I came up as Prince Deux-ponts held the dying man in his arms. He was seated on the ditch bank, while Richelieu tranquilly wiped his steel."
"On my honor, my lord, you astound me. Things passed as you describe."
"Stay, you wore a captain's uniform then, in the Queen's Light Horse Guards, so badly cut up at Fontenoy?"
"Were you in that battle, too?" jeered the baron.
"No, I was dead at that time," replied the stranger, calmly.
The baron stared, Andrea shuddered, and Nicole made the sign of the cross.
"To resume the subject, I recall you clearly now, as you held your horse and the duke's while he fought. I went up to you for an account and you gave it. They called you the Little Chevalier. Excuse me not remembering before, but thirty years change a man. To the health of Marshal Richelieu, my dear baron!"
"But, according to this, you would be upward of fifty."
"I am of the age to have witnessed that affair."
The baron dropped back in the chair so vexed that Nicole could not help laughing. But Andrea, instead of laughing, mused with her looks on the mysterious guest. He seemed to await this chance to dart two or three flaming glances
