Carried away by the force of his own eloquence, the Chevalier fell into an attitude at the conclusion of his little speech; but remembering where he was, blushed, and bowed again.

“Pshaw,” said my father impatiently, “the man’s a conjuror.”

The little Frenchman did not hear him.  He was at that moment untying a packet which he carried in his hat, the contents whereof appeared to consist of a number of very small pink and yellow cards.  Selecting a couple of each color, he deposited his hat carefully upon the floor and came a few steps nearer to the table.

“Monsieur will give me the hope to see him, with Monsieur son fils, at my Soiree Fantastique, n’est-ce pas?” he asked, timidly.

“Sir,” said my father shortly, “I never encourage peripatetic mendicity.”

The little Frenchman looked puzzled.

“Comment?” said he, and glanced to me for an explanation.

“I am very sorry, Monsieur,” I interposed hastily; “but my father objects to public entertainments.”

“Ah, mon Dieu! but not to this,” cried the Chevalier, raising his hands and eyes in deprecating astonishment.  “Not to my Soiree Fantastique!  The art of legerdemain, Monsieur, is not immoral.  He is graceful—­he is surprising—­he is innocent; and, Monsieur, he is patronized by the Church; he is patronized by your amiable Cure, Monsieur le Docteur Brand.”

“Oh, father,” I exclaimed, “Dr. Brand has taken tickets!”

“And pray, sir, what’s that to me?” growled my father, without looking up from the book which he had ungraciously resumed.  “Let Dr. Brand make a fool of himself, if he pleases.  I’m not bound to do the same.”

The Chevalier blushed crimson—­not with humility this time, but with pride.  He gathered the cards into his pocket, took up his hat, and saying stiffly—­“Monsieur, je vous demande pardon.”—­moved towards the door.

On the threshold he paused, and turning towards me with an air of faded dignity:—­“Young gentleman,” he said, “you I thank for your politeness.”

He seemed as if he would have said more—­hesitated—­became suddenly livid—­put his hand to his head, and leaned for support against the wall.

My father was up and beside him in an instant.  We carried rather than led him to the sofa, untied his cravat, and administered the necessary restoratives.  He was all but insensible for some moments.  Then the color came back to his lips, and he sighed heavily.

“An attack of the nerves,” he said, shaking his head feebly.  “An attack of the nerves, Messieurs.”

My father looked doubtful.

“Are you often taken in this way?” he asked, with unusual gentleness.

“Mais oui, Monsieur,” admitted the Frenchman, reluctantly.  “He does often arrive to me.  Not—­not that he is dangerous.  Ah, bah! Pas du tout!”

“Humph!” ejaculated my father, more doubtfully than before.  “Let me feel your pulse.”