“One would think,” said G——­, laughing, “that you had been mesmerized.  If you have been so deceived in a picture, may you not be equally cheated in a man?  I am loath to offend; but, indeed, the person whom you call Rosecouleur cannot be the Duke of that title, whom I saw in England.  I had leave to copy a picture in his gallery.  He was often present.  His manners were mild and unassuming,—­not at all like those of this man, to whom, I acknowledge, the personal resemblance is surprising.  I am afraid our good friends, the Denslows, and Mr. Dalton,—­whom I esteem for their patronage of art,—­have been taken in by an adventurer.”

“But the valet, Reve de Noir?”

“The Duke had a valet of that name who attended him, and who may, for aught I know, have resembled this one; but probability is against concurrent resemblances.  There is also an original of the picture in the Duke’s gallery; in fact, the artist, as was not unusual in those days, painted two pictures of the same subject.  Both, then, are genuine.”

Returning my cordial thanks to the good painter for his timely explanation, I hastened to find Dalton.  Drawing him from the midst of a group whom he was entertaining, I communicated G——­’s account of the two pictures, and his suspicions in regard to the Duke.

His perplexity was great.  “Worse and worse, De Vere!  To be ruined by a common adventurer is more disgraceful even than the other misfortune.  Besides, our guests are leaving us.  At least a hundred of them have gone away with the first impression, and the whole city will have it.  The journal reporters have been here.  Denslow’s principal creditors were among the guests to-night; they went away soon, just after the affair with the picture; to-morrow will be our dark day.  If it had not been for this demon of a duke and his familiar, whoever they are, all would have gone well.  Now we are distrusted, and they will crush us.  Let us fall facing the enemy.  Within an hour I will have the truth about the Duke.  Did I ever tell you what a price Denslow paid for that picture?”

“No, I do not wish to hear.”

“You are right.  Come with me.”

The novel disrespect excited by the scandal of Honoria and the picture seemed to have inspired the two hundred people who remained with a cheerful ease.  Eating, drinking excessively of Denslow’s costly wines, dancing to music which grew livelier and more boisterous as the musicians imbibed more of the inspiriting juice, and, catching scraps of the scandal, threw out significant airs, the company of young persons, deserted by their scandalized seniors, had converted the magnificent suite of drawing-rooms into a carnival theatre.  Parties of three and four were junketing in corners; laughing servants rushed to and fro as in a cafe; the lounges were occupied by reclining beauties or languid fops overpowered with wine, about whom lovely young women, flushed with Champagne and mischief, were coquetting and frolicking.