Now the gentilhomme of France is an entirely different type.  He must rely on pedigree and coats-of-arms; he must be sudden and quick in quarrel; he must fling away his money freely amongst the roture; he must be what is called a beau joueur—­that is to say, he may lose at the gaming-table the dowry of his mother, the marriage-portion of his sister, everything, in short, save his temper; he may defraud a creditor, and be the first to laugh at the fraud.  “One God, one love, one king!” is the cry of the good old English gentleman.  But in religion the gentilhomme Francais may declare with Henri Quatre that “Paris vaut bien une messe;” in love he may pledge his faith to as many mistresses as that same valiant sovereign; and in politics he may cry, “Vive le Roi! vive la Ligue!” and yet remain a parfait gentilhomme in spite of all.

Every generation seems to have furnished its parfait gentilhomme par excellence.  The court of Louis Quatorze boasted of its Chevalier de Grammont, from whose own confession we learn that he gloried in the skill with which he cheated the poor Count de Camma at Lyons and the cunning with which he eluded payment of his bill at the inn.

Then came M. de Montrond, and he again was premier gentilhomme de France while he lived and le dernier des gentilhommes Francais when he died.  M. de Montrond belonged to two generations, two strongly-contrasted epochs.  At his first ball at court he wore a powdered cadogan and danced in talons rouges:  at his last he lolled with bald head against a doorway, in varnished boots and starched cravat.  His existence has remained an enigma to this hour.  Although solicited to accept office by every party that rose to power during his life, he steadfastly refused, and yet, by virtue of his quality of premier gentilhomme de France, possessed unbounded influence with them all.  The explanation he gave of his system was cynical enough:  “A man must march straight to the cash-box and secure the money, without waiting in the ante-room or the bureau:  the power is sure to follow.”  He chatted politics sometimes, but never “talked” them, and seldom failed to introduce the names of one or more of the forty-three duchesses, countesses and marquises whose peace of mind he boasted of having wrecked for ever.  Is it not strange that such frothy frivolity could have obtained dominion for more than fifty years over the most critical people in the world?  But Montrond always declared that no man in France would ever take the trouble to read a book if once he had taken the trouble to read the preface.  Even by the capricious and pedantic yet ignorant society of fashionable London his fantastical dominion was acknowledged; and the reason of this will be understood at once in the fearlessness with which he uttered his rule of conduct:  “Every man of distinction should settle his income at ten thousand pounds a year, and never trouble himself whether