One of the men, an elderly and distinguished-looking personage with a commanding mien, now pressed forward to introduce himself.  “Monsieur, I am the Marquis Lyonel de Fervlans,” he repeated in a patronizing tone.

“I am Alfred Cambray,” was the simple response.

“Ah?  Pray, have the kindness to tell us—­the friends of the countess—­what has happened?”

M. Cambray related how and where he had found the lost child, the company listening with eager attention.  All were deeply affected.  Some of the women wept.  When M. Cambray concluded his recital, the marquis grasped both his hands, and, pressing them warmly, said in a trembling voice: 

“Thanks, many thanks, you brave, good man!  We will never forget your kindness.”

One of the physicians now came from the boudoir, and announced that the countess was better, and desired to speak to the deliverer of her child.

The countess was reclining on an ottoman, half buried in luxurious cushions.  Her little daughter was kneeling by her side, her head resting on her mother’s knee.  It was a charming tableau.

“I am not able to express my gratitude, monsieur,” began the countess, in a faint voice, extending both hands toward M. Cambray.  “I hope you will allow me to call you my friend.  I shall never cease to thank you!  Amelie, my love, kiss this hand; look at this face; impress it on your heart, and never, never forget it, for this brave gentleman rescued you from a most horrible fate.”

M. Cambray listened to these profuse expressions of gratitude, but with heedless ear.  His thoughts were with the fugitives.  He longed to know if they had escaped pursuit.  While the countess was speaking he could not help but think that a great ado was being made because a little countess had been abandoned half clad in the public street. He knew of another little maid who had been treated with far greater cruelty.

His reply was brief: 

“Your little daughter is very charming.”

The mother sat upright with sudden decision, and unfastened the ivory locket from the black ribbon around her neck.  It contained a portrait of the little countess Amelie.

“If the memory of the little foundling you rescued is dear to you, monsieur, then accept this from me, and think sometimes of your protegee.”

It was a noble gift indeed!  The lovely countess had given him her most valued ornament.

M. Cambray expressed his thanks, pressed his lips to the countess’s hand, and kissed the little Amelie, who smilingly lifted her face for the caress.  Then he bowed courteously, and returned to the salon.  He was met at the door by the Marquis de Fervlans, who exclaimed reproachfully: 

“What, you are going to desert us already?  Then, if you will go, you must allow me to offer you my carriage.”  He gave his arm to the old gentleman, and conducted him to the vestibule, where, among a number of liveried servants, stood a trim hussar in Swiss uniform.