“Heaven!  Why, it’s Mr. Aycon!  How in the world do you come here?”

To feel surprise at the Duchess of Saint-Maclou doing anything which she might please to do or being anywhere that the laws of Nature rendered it possible she should be, was perhaps a disposition of mind of which I should have been by this time cured; yet I was surprised to find her standing in the doorway that led from Jean’s little bedroom dressed in a neat walking gown and a very smart hat, her hands clasped in the surprise which she shared with me and her eyes gleaming with an amused delight which found, I fear, no answer in my heavy bewildered gaze.

“I’m getting warm,” said I at first, but then I made an effort to rouse myself.  “I was a bit hurt, you know,” I went on; “that little villain Pierre—­”

“Hurt!” cried the duchess, springing forward.  “How?  Oh, my dear Mr. Aycon, how pale you are!”

After that remark of the duchess’, I remember nothing which occurred for a long while.  In fact, just as I had apprehended that I was awake, that the duchess was real, and that it was most remarkable to find her in Jean’s cottage, I fainted, and the duchess, the cottage, and everything else vanished from sight and mind.

When next I became part of the waking world I found myself on the sofa of the little room in the duke’s house which I was beginning to know so well.  I felt very comfortable:  my arm was neatly bandaged, I wore a clean shirt.  Suzanne was spreading a meal on the table, and the duchess, in a charming morning gown, was smiling at me and humming a tune.  The clock on the mantelpiece marked a quarter to eight.

“Now I know all about it,” said the duchess, perceiving my revival.  “I’ve heard it all from Suzanne and Jean—­or anyhow I can guess the rest.  And you mustn’t tire yourself by talking.  I had you brought here so that you might be well looked after; because we’re so much indebted to you, you know.”

“Is the duke here?” I asked.

“Oh, dear, no; it’s all right,” nodded the duchess.  “I don’t know—­and I do not care—­where the duke is.  Drink this milk, Mr. Aycon.  Your arm’s not very bad, you know—­Jean says it isn’t, I mean—­but you’d better have milk first, and something to eat when you feel stronger.”

The duchess appeared to be in excellent spirits.  She caught up a bit of toast from the table, poured out a cup of coffee, and, still moving about, began a light breakfast, with every sign of appetite and enjoyment.

“You’ve come back?” said I, looking at her in persistent surprise.

Suzanne put the cushions behind my back in a more comfortable position, smiled kindly on us, and left us.

“Yes,” said the duchess, “I have for the present, Mr. Aycon.”

“But—­but the duke—­” I stammered.

“I don’t mind the duke,” said she.  “Besides, he may not come.  It’s rather nice that you’re just a little hurt.  Don’t you think so, Mr. Aycon?  Just a little, you know.”