Lethal stiffened himself to the ordeal of an introduction; the affair seemed to exasperate him.  Denslow alone, of the men, was in his element.  Pompous and soft, he “cottoned” to the grandeur with the instinct of a born satellite, and his eyes grew brighter, his body more shining and rotund, his back more concave.  His bon-vivant tones, jolly and conventional, sounded a pure barytone to the clear soprano of Honoria, in the harmony of an obsequious welcome.

The Duke of Rosecouleur glanced around him approvingly upon the apartments.  I believed that he had never seen anything more beautiful than the petite palace of Honoria, or more ravishing than herself.  He said little, in a low voice, and always to one person at a time.  His answers and remarks were simple and well-turned.

Dalton allowed the others to move on, and by a slight sign drew me to him.

“It is unexpected,” he said, in a thoughtful manner, looking me full in the eyes.

“You knew the Duke of Rosecouleur in Europe?”

“At Paris, yes,—­and in Italy he was a travel friend; but we heard lately that he had retired upon his estates in England; and certainly, he is the last person we looked for here.”

“Unannounced.”

“That is a part of the singularity.”

“His name was not in the published list of arrivals; but he may have left England incognito.  Is a mistake possible?”

“No! there is but one such man in Europe;—­a handsomer or a richer does not live.”

“An eye of wonderful depth.”

“Hands exquisite.”

“Feet, ditto.”

“And his dress and manner.”

“Unapproachable!”

“Not a shadow of pretence;—­the essence of good-breeding founded upon extensive knowledge, and a thorough sense of position and its advantages; —­in fact, the Napoleon of the parlor.”

“But, Dalton,” said I, nervously, “no one attends him.”

“No,—­I thought so at first; but do you see that Mephistophelean figure, in black, who follows the Duke a few paces behind, and is introduced to no one?”

“Yes.  A singular creature, truly!—­how thin he is!”

“That shadow that follows his Highness is, in fact, the famous valet, Reve de Noir,—­the prince of servants.  The Duke goes nowhere without this man as a shadow.  He asserts that Reve de Noir has no soul; and I believe him.  The face is that of a demon.  It is a separate creation, equally wonderful with the master, but not human.  He was condensed out of the atmosphere of the great world.”