“You certainly have heard more about him,” returned the baroness, a trifle impatiently.  “His domestic troubles were in all the newspapers—­it was a cause celebre.  He was a major in the French army, under the Directory, but entered our service when the Empire was established.  The domestic troubles I referred to occurred while he was still in France.  His young and beautiful wife ran away with another man—­a man who is unknown to Barthelmy, who is pursuing the fugitives over the whole world—­”

“Ah!  I remember now reading something about it.  That is why his name seemed familiar to me.”

“I thought you must have heard something about him,” responded the baroness, in a peculiar tone.  Then, with a sudden movement, she seized his hand and whispered: 

“And you are the unknown who abducted Colonel Barthelmy’s wife.”

“I?” in boundless amazement ejaculated the count.  Then he laughed heartily.

“Yes, you; and you are living here in seclusion with the lovely woman whose face no one is permitted to see.”

Ludwig ceased laughing, and replied very seriously; “Gracious baroness, were I the person you believe me to be, I should have been glad to meet the man who compelled me to live here in seclusion.  A skilful sword-thrust or a well-aimed bullet would have released me from this prison.”

“And yet, everybody believes Count Vavel to be Ange Barthelmy’s lover,” responded the baroness.

“Do you believe it, baroness?”

“I?  Perhaps—­not.  But Colonel Barthelmy believes it all the more firmly because you refused to see him.”

“And suppose he had seen me?”

“He would have asked you to introduce him to your—­family.”

“Then he would have learned that I have no family.”

“But you could not have refused to tell him what relation you bear to the lady at the castle.”

“My answer would have been very brief had he asked the question,” was the count’s grim response.

“I know what men mean by a ‘brief’ answer; the result is usually fatal.”

“And does your ladyship imagine that I fear such a result?”

“So far as courage is concerned, I should not give any one precedence to Count Vavel.  A regular duel, however, requires more than courage.  Colonel Barthelmy is a soldier by profession; you are a philosopher who lives amid his studies, and whose right hand is unable to hold a pen, let alone a sword or a pistol!”

Count Vavel was touched on the spot where men are most susceptible.

“Who can tell whether I have always been a studious hermit?” he demanded proudly.  “Besides, might it not be that my hand is unable only when I don’t want to use it?”

“That may be,” retorted the lady.  “But Barthelmy, who is perfectly insane on the subject of his wife’s infamy, would have the advantage of you.  He is suspicious of every stranger; and of all the gossip which environs you, the legend of that elopement is the mildest.”