I suppose an honourable bankrupt would know such an awakening:  the sense of catastrophe, the shrinking from the necessity of beginning life again, the faint feeling that there are misfortunes which must be paid for by a hanging.  In the course of the morning Therese informed me that the apartment usually occupied by Mr. Blunt was vacant and added mysteriously that she intended to keep it vacant for a time, because she had been instructed to do so.  I couldn’t imagine why Blunt should wish to return to Marseilles.  She told me also that the house was empty except for myself and the two dancing girls with their father.  Those people had been away for some time as the girls had engagements in some Italian summer theatres, but apparently they had secured a re-engagement for the winter and were now back.  I let Therese talk because it kept my imagination from going to work on subjects which, I had made up my mind, were no concern of mine.  But I went out early to perform an unpleasant task.  It was only proper that I should let the Carlist agent ensconced in the Prado Villa know of the sudden ending of my activities.  It would be grave enough news for him, and I did not like to be its bearer for reasons which were mainly personal.  I resembled Dominic in so far that I, too, disliked failure.

The Marquis of Villarel had of course gone long before.  The man who was there was another type of Carlist altogether, and his temperament was that of a trader.  He was the chief purveyor of the Legitimist armies, an honest broker of stores, and enjoyed a great reputation for cleverness.  His important task kept him, of course, in France, but his young wife, whose beauty and devotion to her King were well known, represented him worthily at Headquarters, where his own appearances were extremely rare.  The dissimilar but united loyalties of those two people had been rewarded by the title of baron and the ribbon of some order or other.  The gossip of the Legitimist circles appreciated those favours with smiling indulgence.  He was the man who had been so distressed and frightened by Dona Rita’s first visit to Tolosa.  He had an extreme regard for his wife.  And in that sphere of clashing arms and unceasing intrigue nobody would have smiled then at his agitation if the man himself hadn’t been somewhat grotesque.

He must have been startled when I sent in my name, for he didn’t of course expect to see me yet—­nobody expected me.  He advanced soft-footed down the room.  With his jutting nose, flat-topped skull and sable garments he recalled an obese raven, and when he heard of the disaster he manifested his astonishment and concern in a most plebeian manner by a low and expressive whistle.  I, of course, could not share his consternation.  My feelings in that connection were of a different order; but I was annoyed at his unintelligent stare.

“I suppose,” I said, “you will take it on yourself to advise Dona Rita, who is greatly interested in this affair.”