“Mean?” echoed the student, in reply to this chorus of exclamations.  “I mean that I bought it this morning, and gave seven francs for it.  It is not every morning of my life, let me tell you, that I have seven francs to throw away on my personal appearance.”

“But then the ring that the lady took from her finger?”

“And the murder?”

“And the servant in black?”

“And the hundred scudi?”

“One great invention from beginning to end, Messieurs les Chicards, and being got up expressly for your amusement, I hope you liked it. Garcon?—­another grog au vin, and sweeter than the last!”

It would be difficult to say whether the Chicards were most disappointed or delighted at this denoument—­disappointed at its want of fact, or delighted with the story-weaving power of Herr Franz Mueller.  They expressed themselves, at all events, with a tumultuous burst of applause, in the midst of which we rose and left the room.  When we once more came out into the open air, the stars had disappeared and the air was heavy with the damps of approaching daybreak.  Fortunately, we caught an empty fiacre in the next street and, as we were nearer the Rue du Faubourg Montmartre than the Chaussee d’ Antin, Dalrymple set me down first.

“Adieu, Damon,” he said, laughingly, as we shook hands through the window.  “If we don’t meet before, come and dine with me next Sunday at seven o’clock—­and don’t dream of dreadful murders, if you can help it!”

I did not dream of dreadful murders.  I dreamt, instead, of Madame de Marignan, and never woke the next morning till eleven o’clock, just two hours later than the time at which I should have presented myself at Dr. Cheron’s.

* * * * *

CHAPTER XV.

WHAT IT IS TO BE A CAVALIERE SERVENTE.

     “Everye white will have its blacke,
     And everye sweet its sowere.”

     Old Ballad.

Neither the example of Oscar Dalrymple nor the broadcloth of the great Michaud, achieved half so much for my education as did the apprenticeship I was destined to serve to Madame de Marignan.  Having once made up her mind to civilize me, she spared no pains for the accomplishment of that end, cost what it might to herself—­or me.  Before I had been for one week her subject, she taught me how to bow; how to pick up a pocket-handkerchief; how to present a bouquet; how to hold a fan; how to pay a compliment; how to turn over the leaves of a music-book—­in short, how to obey and anticipate every imperious wish; and how to fetch and carry, like a dog.  My vassalage began from the very day when I first ventured to call upon her.  Her house was small, but very elegant, and she received me in a delicious little room overlooking the Champs Elysees—­a very nest of flowers, books, and birds.  Before I had breathed the air of that fatal boudoir for one quarter of an hour, I was as abjectly her slave as the poodle with the rose-colored collar which lay curled upon a velvet cushion at her feet.