M. de Firmin-Latour’s friend hailed them, introduced them to him, and soon he was host, not to one lady, but to four, and instead of two dinners he had to order five, and more champagne, and then dessert—­peaches, strawberries, bonbons, liqueurs, flowers, and what not, until I could see that the bill which presently he would be called upon to pay would amount to far more than his quarterly allowance from Mme. la Marquise, far more, presumably, than he had in his pocket at the present moment.

My brain works with marvellous rapidity, as you know.  Already I had made up my mind to see the little comedy through to the end, and I watched with a good deal of interest and some pity the clouds of anxiety gathering over M. de Firmin-Latour’s brow.

The dinner party lasted some considerable time; then the inevitable cataclysm occurred.  The ladies were busy chattering and rouging their lips when the bill was presented.  They affected to see and hear nothing:  it is a way ladies have when dinner has to be paid for; but I saw and heard everything.  The waiter stood by, silent and obsequious at first, whilst M. le Marquis hunted through all his pockets.  Then there was some whispered colloquy, and the waiter’s attitude lost something of its correct dignity.  After that the proprietor was called, and the whispered colloquy degenerated into altercation, whilst the ladies—­not at all unaware of the situation—­giggled amongst themselves.  Finally, M. le Marquis offered a promissory note, which was refused.

Then it was that our eyes met.  M. de Firmin-Latour had flushed to the roots of his hair.  His situation was indeed desperate, and my opportunity had come.  With consummate sang-froid, I advanced towards the agitated group composed of M. le Marquis, the proprietor, and the head waiter.  I glanced at the bill, the cause of all this turmoil, which reposed on a metal salver in the head waiter’s hand, and with a brief: 

“If M. le Marquis will allow me . . .”  I produced my pocket-book.

The bill was for nine hundred francs.

At first M. le Marquis thought that I was about to pay it—­and so did the proprietor of the establishment, who made a movement as if he would lie down on the floor and lick my boots.  But not so.  To begin with, I did not happen to possess nine hundred francs, and if I did, I should not Have been fool enough to lend them to this young scapegrace.  No!  What I did was to extract from my notebook a card, one of a series which I always keep by me in case of an emergency like the present one.  It bore the legend:  “Comte Hercule de Montjoie, secretaire particulier de M. le Duc d’Otrante,” and below it the address, “Palais du Commissariat de Police, 12 Quai d’Orsay.”  This card I presented with a graceful flourish of the arm to the proprietor of the establishment, whilst I said with that lofty self-assurance which is one of my finest attributes and which I have never seen equalled: