Isham Frederic Stewart
The Strollers

Overwrought and excitable, he did not dare remain for the latter portion of the drama; better leave before the last act, he told himself, and, dazed by the reappearance of that vision, the old man fairly staggered from the box.

The curtain fell for the last time, and Barnes, with exultation, stood watching in the wings. She had triumphed, his little girl; she had won the great, generous heart of New Orleans. He clapped his hands furiously, joining in the evidences of approval, and, when the ovation finally ceased and she approached, the old manager was so overcome he had not a word to say. She looked at him questioningly, and he who had always been her instructor folded her fondly to his breast.

“I owe it all to you,” she whispered.

“Pooh!” he answered. “You stole fire from heaven. I am but a theatrical, bombastic, barnstorming Thespian.”

“Would you spoil me?” she interrupted, tenderly.

“You are your mother over again, my dear! If she were only here now! But where is Saint-Prosper? He has not yet congratulated you? He, our good genius, whose generosity has made all this possible!” And Barnes half-turned, when she placed a detaining hand on his arm.

“No, no!”

“Why, my dear, have you and he–”

“Is it not enough that you are pleased?” replied Constance, hastily, with a glance so shining he forgot all further remonstrances.

“Pleased!” exclaimed Barnes. “Why, I feel as gay as Momus! But we’ll sing Te Deum later at the festive board. Go now and get ready!”

CHAPTER X
LAUGHTER AND TEARS

A supper was given the company after the performance by the manager, to which representatives of the press–artful Barnes!–had been invited. Of all the merry evenings in the bohemian world, that was one of the merriest. Next to the young girl sat the Count de Propriac, his breast covered with a double row of medals. Of the toasts drunk to Constance, the manager, poets Straws and Phazma, etc., unfortunately no record remains. Of the recollections of the wiry old lady; the impromptu verse of the rhymsters; the roaring speech of Mr. Barnes; the song and dainty flower dance by Susan and Kate–only the bare facts have descended to the chronicler.

So fancy must picture the wreaths of smoke; the superabundance of flowers, the fragrance of cigars mingling with the perfume of fading floral beauties; the pale dark-eyed girl presiding, upon her dusky hair a crown of laurel, set there, despite her protestations, by Phazma and Straws; the devotion of the count to his fair neighbor; the almost superhuman pride of noisy Barnes; the attention bestowed by Susan upon Saint-Prosper, while through his mind wandered the words of a French song:

 
“Adieu, la cour, adieu les dames;
Adieu les filles et les femmes–”
 

Intermixed with this sad refrain the soldier’s thoughts reverted to the performance, and amidst the chatter of Susan, he reviewed again and again the details of that evening. Was this the young girl who played in school-houses, inns or town halls, he had asked himself, seated in the rear of the theater? How coldly critical had been her auditors; some of the faces about him ironical; the bored, tired faces of men who had well-nigh drained life’s novelties; the artificially vivacious faces of women who played at light-heartedness and gaiety! Yet how free from concern had she been, as natural and composed as though her future had not depended upon that night! When she won an ovation, he had himself forgotten to applaud, but had sat there, looking from her to the auditors, to whom she was now bound by ties of admiration and friendliness.

“Don’t you like her?” a voice next to him had asked.

Like her? He had looked at the man, blankly.

“Yes,” he had replied.

Then the past had seemed to roll between them: the burning sands; the voices of the troops; the bugle call! In his brain wild thoughts had surged and flowed–as they were surging and flowing now.

“Is he not handsome, Constance’s new admirer?” whispered Susan. “What can he be saying? She looks so pleased! He is very rich, isn’t he?”

“I don’t know,” answered Saint-Prosper, brusquely.

Again the thoughts surged and surged, and the past intruded itself! Reaching for his glass, he drank quickly.

“Don’t you ever feel the effects of wine?” asked the young woman.

His glance chilled her, it seemed so strange and steely!

“I believe you are so–so strong you don’t even notice it,” added Susan, with conviction. “But you don’t have half as good a time!”

“Perhaps I enjoy myself in my way,” he answered.

“What is your way?” she asked quickly. “You don’t appear to be wildly hilarious in your pleasures.” And Susan’s bright eyes rested on him curiously. “But we were speaking about the count and Constance. Don’t you think it would be a good match?” she continued with enthusiasm. “Alas, my titled admirer got no further than the beginning. But men are deceivers ever! When they do reach the Songs of Solomon, they pass on to Exodus!”

“And leave the fair ones to Lamentations,” said Straws, who had caught her last remarks.

“Or Revelations!” added Phazma.

At the sound of their laughter, Constance looked coldly their way, until a remark from the count at her right, and, “As I was saying, my dear,” from the old lady at her left, engrossed the young girl’s attention once more. But finally the great enemy of joy–the grim guardian of human pleasure–the reaper whose iron hands move ever in a circle, symbolical of eternity–finally, Time reminded Barnes that the hour had surely arrived when the curtain should descend upon these festivities. So he roared out a last blithe farewell, and the guests departed one by one, taking with them flowers in memory of the occasion, until all had left save Constance, the count, Saint-Prosper and the manager. Barnes was talking somewhat incoherently, holding the soldier by the coat and plunging into successive anecdotes about stage folk, while Saint-Prosper, apparently listening, observed the diplomat and Constance, whose conversation he could overhear.

“As I said to the Royal Infanta of Spain, flattery flies before truth in your presence, Mademoiselle,” sighed the count. And then raising her hand to his lips, “Ah, ma chere Mademoiselle, que je vous adore!” he whispered.

She withdrew it hastily, and, ogling and gesticulating, he bowed himself out, followed by the manager.

Leaning against the chair, her figure outlined by the glow from the crystal chandelier, her face in shadow, the hand the diplomat had pressed to his lips resting in the exposed light on the mahogany, the gaiety went out of her face, and the young girl wearily brushed the hair from her brow. As if unaware of the soldier’s presence, she glanced absently at the table in its wrecked glory, and, throwing her lace wrap over her arm, was moving toward the door, when he spoke.

“Miss Carew!”

She paused, standing with clasped hands before him, while the scarf slipped from her arm and fell at her feet.

“May I not also tell you how glad I am–that you succeeded to-night?”

“I dislike congratulations!” she said, indifferently.

He looked at her quickly, but her eyes expressed only apathy. In his a sudden gleam of light appeared.

“From me, you mean?” The light became brighter.

She did not answer. His self-control was fast ebbing.

“You underestimate your favors, if you fancy they are easily forgotten!”

A crimson flush extended to her brow; the unconcern died out of her eyes.

“I do not understand,” she answered, slowly.

“When a woman says ‘I do not understand,’ she means ‘I wish to forget’.”

Her wide-open glance flashed ominously to his; she clasped and unclasped her fingers.

“Forget what?” she said, coldly.

“Nameless nothings!” he returned. “A smile–a glance–nothing to you, perhaps, but”–the set expression of his face giving way to abrupt passion!–“everything to me! Perhaps I had not meant to say this, but it seems as though the words must come out to-night. It may be”–his voice vibrating with strange earnestness–“for once I want to be myself. For weeks we have been–friends–and then suddenly you begin to treat me–how? As though I no longer existed! Why did you deceive me–let me drift on? Because I was mute, did you think I was blind? Why did I join the strollers–the land baron accused me of following you across the country. He was right; I was following you. I would not confess it to myself before. But I confess it now! It was a fool’s paradise,” he ended, bitterly.

She shrank back before his vehement words; something within her appeared violated; as though his plea had penetrated the sanctity of her reserve.

“Would it not be well to say nothing about deception?” she replied, and her dark eyes swept his face. Then, turning from him abruptly, she stepped to the window, and, drawing aside the lace curtains mechanically, looked out.

The city below was yet teeming with life, lights gleaming everywhere and shadowy figures passing. Suddenly out of the darkness came a company of soldiers who had just landed, marching through the streets toward the camping ground and singing as they went.

The chorus, like a mighty breath of patriotism, filled her heart to overflowing. It seemed as though she had heard it for the first time; had never before felt its potency. All the tragedy of war swept before her; all that inspiring, strange affection for country, kith and kin, suddenly exalted her.

Above the tramping of feet, the melody rose and fell on the distant air, dying away as the figures vanished in the gloom. With its love of native land, its expression of the unity of comradeship and ties stronger than death, the song appeared to challenge an answer; and, when the music ceased, and only the drum-beats still seemed to make themselves heard, she raised her head without moving from her position and looked at him to see if he understood. But though she glanced at him, she hardly saw him. In her mind was another picture–the betrayed garrison; the soldiers slain!–and the horror of it threw such a film over her gaze that he became as a figure in some distressing dream.

An inkling of her meaning–the mute questioning of her eyes–the dread evoked by that revolting vision of the past–were reflected in his glance.

“Deceived you?” he began, and his voice, to her, sounded as from afar. “How–what–”

“Must it be–could it be put into words?”

The deepest shadows dwelt in her eyes; shadows he could not penetrate, although he still doggedly, yet apprehensively, regarded her! Watching her, his brow grew darker.

“Why not?” he continued, stubbornly.

Why? The dimness that had obscured her vision lifted. Now she saw him very plainly, indeed; tall and powerful; his face, harsh, intense, as though by the vigor of physical and mental force he would override any charge or imputation.

Why? She drew herself up, as he quickly searched her eyes, bright with the passions that stirred her breast.

“You told me part of your story that day in the property wagon,” she began, repugnance, scorn and anger all mingling in her tones. “Why did you not tell me the rest?”

His glance, too, flashed. Would he still profess not to understand her? His lips parted; he spoke with an effort.

“The rest?” he said, his brow lowering.

“Yes,” she answered quickly; “the stain upon your name!–the garrison sold!–the soldiers killed!–murdered!–”

She had turned to him swiftly, fiercely, with her last words, but before the look of sudden shame and dread on his face, her eyes abruptly fell as though a portion of his dishonor had inexplicably touched her. He made no attempt to defend himself–motionless he stood an instant–then, without a word, he moved away. At the threshold he paused, but she did not look up–could not! A moment; an eternity!

“Why don’t you go?” she cried. “Why don’t you go?”

The door opened, closed; she was alone.

Pale as the dying lilies on the table, she stepped toward the threshold, when Barnes, chipper and still indefatigable, entered by another door. He was too inspired with festal intoxication to observe her agitation.

“What, my dear!” he exclaimed cheerily. “Has he gone? Did you make up your little differences? Did you settle your quarrel before he leaves for Mexico?”

“For Mexico!” she repeated, mechanically.

“Of course. He has his commission in the army and leaves early in the morning. But you look tired, my dear. I declare you are quite pale”–pinching her cheek–“rest will bring back the roses, though.”

Impulsively she threw her arms around his neck.

“Why, why, what’s this?” he said, patting her head.

“I only care for you,” she whispered. “My dear! My dear!”

CHAPTER XI
THE PASSING OF A FINE GENTLEMAN

“‘Perhaps she will fail, and that will amuse me,’” ruminated François on his high seat next to the coachman, repeating the marquis’ words, as they drove home after the nobleman’s precipitous retreat from the theater. “Well, he didn’t look as though he had been particularly amused. But no wonder he was startled! It even”–reviewing the impression first made upon him at sight of the actress–“sent a shiver through me!” Here the carriage drew up sharply before the marquis’ home, and François, hastily alighting, threw open the door.

“Eh? What? Are we here?” muttered the marquis, starting from the corner where he had been reclining.

He arose with some difficulty; traversed the sidewalk and the shell-strewn path to the house which loomed darkly before them; paused at the foot of the stairs where he breathed heavily, complaining of the oppressiveness of the air; and finally, with the assistance of the valet, found himself once more in his room, the sick chamber he had grown to detest! Here alone–having dismissed the servant as soon as possible–he moved restlessly to and fro, pondering deeply. Since the moment when he had seen and recognized his daughter, all the buoyancy which had given his wasted figure a sort of galvanic vitality seemed to vanish. It was like the exhaustion of a battery, the collapse of the sustaining power.

“That resemblance can not be coincidence!” he thought. “Oh, errors of the past, you come home in our old age when the limbs are faltering and life is failing!”

Going to the secrétaire, he took out a box that had not been opened in years, and, with trembling fingers, turned over many papers. He shivered, and, thinking it was cold, stirred the fire. Returning to the secretary, he took from the box a package tied with a ribbon still, after the lapse of these many years, slightly fragrant, and he breathed that perfume, so faint, so subtle, while recollections smote him like a knife.

Its scent was familiar to him; it seemed to bring life to the dead, and for the moment in his mind’s eye he saw her glowing figure, the love of his youth, with flashing, revengeful eyes and noble mien. He cowered over the desk, as if shrinking from an avenging spirit, while the perfume, like opium, filled his brain with strange fantasies. He strove to drown remembrance, but some force–it seemed not his own!–drove him irresistibly to untie that ribbon, to scrutinize many old theater programs and to gaze upon a miniature in ivory depicting a woman in the loveliness of her charms, but whose striking likeness to the young actress he had just seen filled his heart with strange fear. Some power–surely it could not have been his will which rebelled strenuously!–impelled him to open those letters and to read them word for word. The tenderness of the epistles fell on his heart as though to scorch it, and he quivered like a guilty wretch. His eyes were fascinated by these words in her last letter: “Should you desert me and your unborn child, your end will be miserable. As I believe in retribution, I am sure you will reap as you have sown.”

Suddenly the reader in a frenzy threw the letter to the floor and trampled on it. He regarded the face in the miniature with fear and hatred, and dashing it into the drawer, called down maledictions on her. He ceased abruptly, weak and wavering.

“I am going insane,” he said, laughing harshly. “Fool! To let that woman’s memory disturb me. So much for her dire prophecy!” And he snapped his fingers and dropped the letter in the fire.

“What can her curse avail?” he said aloud. “She is gone, turned to ashes like that paper and there is no life after this one. All then is nothing–emptiness–a blank! I need rest. It is this cursed dyspepsia which has made me nervous. Something to compose me, and then to bed!”

In spite of soothing powders, however, he passed a restless night and arose unrefreshed, but ordered his valet to bring one of his lightest suits, and, having dressed, he set a white flower upon his coat, while the servant proceeded to apply various pigments to the wrinkled face, until it took on a mocking semblance to the countenance of a man fifteen years younger. The marquis leered at himself in the pier-glass and assumed a jauntiness of demeanor he was far from feeling.

“I do not look tired or worried, François?”

“Not at all, my lord,” replied the obsequious valet. “I never saw you, my lord, appear so young and well.”

“Beneath the surface, François, there is age and weakness,” answered the marquis in a melancholy tone.

“It is but a passing indisposition, my lord,” asserted the servant, soothingly.

“Perhaps. But, François”–peering around–“as I look over my shoulder, do you know what I see?”

The almost hideous expression of the roué’s face alarmed the servant.

“No, my lord, what is it?”

“A figure stands there in black and is touching me. It is the spirit of death, François. You can not see it, but there it is–”

“My lord, you speak wildly.”

“I have seen some strange things, François. The dead have arisen. And I have received my warning. Soon I shall join those dark specters which once gaily traversed this bright world. A little brandy and soda, François.”

The servant brought it to him. The marquis leered awfully over his shoulder once more. “Your health, my guest!” he exclaimed, laughing harshly. “But my hat, François; I have business to perform, important business!”

He ambled out of the room. On the street he was all politeness, removing his hat to a dark brunette who rolled by in her carriage, and pausing to chat with another representative of the sex of the blond type. Then he gaily sauntered on, until reaching the theater he stopped and made a number of inquiries. Who was the manager of Constance Carew? Where was he to be found? “At the St. Charles hotel?” He was obliged to Monsieur, the ticket-seller, and wished him good-day.

Entering the hotel, he sent his card to Barnes, requesting an interview, and the manager, overcome by the honor of such a visit, responded with alacrity. The customary formalities over, the nobleman congratulated Barnes on the performance and led the conversation to the young actress.

“Pardon my curiosity,” he said, with apparent carelessness, “but I’m sure I remember an actress of the same name in London–many years ago?”

“Her mother, undoubtedly,” replied the manager, proudly.

“She was married, was she not, to–”

“A scoundrel who took her for his wife in one church and repudiated the ties through another denomination!”

“Ah, a French-English marriage!” said the marquis, blandly. “An old device! But what was this lover’s name?”

“This husband’s, my lord!”

“Lover or husband, I fancy it is all the same to her now,” sneered the caller. “She has passed the point where reputation matters.”

“Her reputation is my concern, Monsieur le Marquis!”

“You knew her?” asked the nobleman, as though the conversation wearied him. “And she was faithful to his memory? No scandals–none of those little affairs women of her class are prone to? There”–as Barnes started up indignantly–“spare me your reproaches! I’m too feeble to quarrel. Besides, what is it to me? I was only curious about her–that is all! But she never spoke the name of her husband?”

“Not even to her own child!”

“She does not know her father’s name?” repeated the marquis. “But I thank you; Mademoiselle Constance is so charming I must needs call to ask if she were related to the London actress! Good-day, Monsieur! You are severe on the lover. Was it not the fashion of the day for the actresses to take lovers, or for the fops to have an opera girl or a comedienne? Did your most popular performers disdain such diversions?” he sneered. “Pardie, the world has suddenly become moral! A gentleman can no longer, it would seem, indulge in gentlemanly follies.”

Mumbling about the decadence of fashion, the marquis departed, his manner so strange the manager gazed after him in surprise.

With no thought of direction, his lips moving, talking to himself in adynamic fashion, the nobleman walked mechanically on until he reached the great cathedral. The organ was rolling and voices arose sweet as those of seraphim. He hesitated at the portal and then laughed to himself. “Well has Voltaire said: ‘Pleasure has its time; so, too, has wisdom. Make love in thy youth, and in old age, attend to thy salvation.’” He repeated the latter words, but, although he paused at the threshold and listened, he did not enter.

As he stood there, uncertain and trembling, a figure replete with youth and vigor approached, and, glancing at her, an exclamation escaped him that caused her to pause and turn.

“You are not well,” she said, solicitously. “Can I help you?”

“It is nothing, nothing!” answered the marquis, ashy pale at the sight of her and the proximity of that face which regarded him with womanly sympathy. “Go away.”

“At least, let me assist you. You were going to the cathedral? Come!”

His hand rested upon her strong young arm; he felt himself too weak to resist, so, together–father and daughter!–they entered the cathedral. Side by side they knelt–he to keep up the farce, fearing to undeceive her–while yet only mocking words came to the old man’s heart, as the bitterness of the situation overwhelmed him. She was a daughter in whom a prince might have found pride, but he remained there mute, not daring to speak, experiencing all the tortures of remorse and retribution. Of what avail had been ambition? How had it overleaped content and ease of mind! Into what a nest of stings and thorns his loveless marriage had plunged him! And now but the black shadow remained; he walked in the darkness of unending isolation. So he should continue to walk straight to the door of death.

He scarcely heard the organ or the voice of the priest. The high altar, with its many symbols, suggested the thousands that had worshiped there and gone away comforted. Here was abundant testimony of the blessings of divine mercy in the numerous costly gifts and in the discarded crutches, and here faith had manifested itself for generations.

The marquis’ throat was hoarse; he could have spoken no words if he had tried. He laughed in his heart at the gifts of the grateful ones; those crosses of ivory and handsome lamps were but symbols of barbarism and superstition. The tablets, with their inscriptions, “Merci” and “Ex voto,” were to him absurd, and he gibed at the simple credulity of the people who could thus be misled. All these evidences of thanksgiving were but cumulative testimony that men and women are like little children, who will be pleased over fairy tales or frightened over ghost stories. The promise of paradise, but the fairy tale told by priests to men and women; the threats of punishment, the ghost stories to awe them! A malicious delight crept into his diseased imagination that he alone in the cathedral possessed the extreme divination, enabling him to perceive the emptiness of all these signs and symbols. He labored in a fever of mental excitement and was only recalled to himself as his glance once more rested upon the young girl.

He became dimly conscious that people were moving past them, and he suddenly longed to cry out, “My child!” but he fought down the impulse. There could be no turning back now at the eleventh hour; the marquis was a philosopher, and did not believe that, in a twinkling of an eye, a man may set behind all that has transpired and regard it as naught. Something within held him from speaking to her–perhaps his own inherent sense of the consistency of things; his appreciation of the legitimate finale to a miserable order of circumstances! Even pride forbade departure from long-established habit. But while this train of thought passed through his mind, he realized she was regarding him with clear, compassionate eyes, and he heard her voice:

“Shall we go now? The services are over.”

He obeyed without question.

“Over!”

Those moments by her side would never return! They were about to part to meet no more on earth. He leaned heavily upon her arm and his steps were faltering. Out into the warm sunshine they passed, the light revealing more plainly the ravages of time in his face.

“You must take a carriage,” she said to the old man.

“Thank you, thank you,” he replied. “Leave me here on the bench. I shall soon be myself. I am only a little weak. You are good to an old man. May I not”–asking solely for the pleasure of hearing her speak–“may I not know the name of one who is kind to an old man?”

“My name is Constance Carew.”

He shook as with the palsy. “A good name, a good name!” he repeated. “I remember years ago another of that name–an actress in London. A very beautiful woman, and good! But even she had her detractors and none more bitter than the man who wronged her. You–you resemble her! But there, don’t let me detain you. I shall do very well here. You are busy, I dare say.”

“Yes, I should be at rehearsal,” she replied regretfully.

“At rehearsal!” he repeated. “Yes!–yes!–. But the stage is no place for you!” he added, suddenly. “You should leave it–leave it!”

She looked at him wonderingly. “Is there nothing more I can do for you?”

“Nothing! Nothing! Except–no, nothing!”

“You were about to ask something?” she observed with more sympathy.

“If you would not think me presuming–if you would not deem it an offense–you remind me of one I loved and lost–it is so long ago since I felt her kiss for the last time–I am so near the grave–”

With tears in her eyes, she bent her head and her fresh young lips just touched his withered brow.

“Good-by,” she said. “I am so sorry for you!” And she was gone, leaving him sitting there motionless as though life had departed.

A rattling cab that clattered noisily past the cabildo and calaboza, and swung around the square, aroused the marquis. He arose, stopped the driver, and entered the rickety vehicle.

“The law office of Marks and Culver,” said the marquis.

The man lashed his horse and the attenuated quadruped flew like a winged Pegasus, soon drawing up before the attorneys’ office. Fortunately Culver was in, and, although averse to business on any day–thinking more of his court-yard and his fountain than of his law books–this botanist-solicitor made shift to comply with the marquis’ instructions and reluctantly earned a modest fee. He even refused to express surprise at my lord’s story; one wife in London, another in Paris; why, many a southern gentleman had two families–quadroons being plentiful, why not? Culver unobtrusively yawned, and, with fine courtesy, bowed the marquis out.

Slowly the latter retraced his steps to his home; his feet were heavy as lead; his smile was forced; he glanced frequently over his shoulder, possessed by a strange fantasy.

“I think I will lie down a little,” he said to his valet. “In this easy chair; that will do. I am feeling well; only tired. How that mass is repeated in my mind! That is because it is Palestrina, François; not because it is a vehicle to salvation, employed by the gibbering priests. Never let your heart rule your head, boy. Don’t mistake anything for reality. ‘What have you seen in your travels?’ was asked of Sage Evemere. ‘Follies!’ was the reply. ‘Follies, follies everywhere!’ We never live; we are always in the expectation of living.”

He made an effort to smile which was little more than a grimace.

“A cigar, François!”

“My lord, are you well?–”

The marquis flew into a rage and the valet placed an imported weed in his master’s hand.

“A light, François!”

The valet obeyed. For a moment the strong cigar seemed to soothe the old man, although his hand shook like an aspen as he held it.

“Now, bring me my Voltaire,” commanded the marquis. “The volume on the table, idiot! Ah! here is what I wish: ‘It takes twenty years to bring man from the state of embryo, and from that of a mere criminal, as he is in his first infancy, to the point when his reason begins to dawn. It has taken thirty centuries to know his structure; it would take eternity to know something of the soul; it takes but an instant to kill him.’ But an instant; but an instant!” he repeated.

He puffed feebly at the cigar.

“It is cold here, François.”

The servant consulted the thermometer.

“It is five degrees warmer than you are accustomed to, my lord,” he replied.

“Bring me the thermometer,” commanded the old man. “You should not lie, François. It is a bad fault in servants. Leave it to your masters; it is a polite vice. The privilege of the world’s potentates, diplomats and great people. Never fall into the rut of lying, François, or you will soon outlive your usefulness as a valet.”

“You can see that I speak the truth, my lord,” was the response, as calm as ever, for nothing disturbed or ruffled this ideal servant.

He held out the thermometer for the marquis’ inspection and the latter examined it carefully. The cigar fell from his fingers to the floor. The attentive valet picked it up and threw it into the grate.

“I believe, François,” stammered the marquis, “that the fault lies with me. It is I–I, who am growing cold like death.”

“Yes, my lord,” answered the calm and imperturbable servant.

“‘Yes?’ you blockhead!” shrieked the master. “Do you know what you are saying?”

“Well, no, then, my lord,” responded the unmoved valet.

“Yes and no!” shouted the marquis in a voice that was wildly discordant. “What do you mean?”

“Whatever my lord pleases,” was the quiet response.

“Mon Dieu! I’ll discharge you.”

The servant only smiled.

“Why did you smile?”

“Oh, my lord–”