“In what way can I serve you, Herr Colonel?”

“In a very simple manner, Herr Count,” responded the colonel.  “I have had the peculiar misfortune which sometimes overtakes a married man; my wife deceived me, and ran away with her lover, whom I do not even know.  As mine is not one of those phlegmatic natures which can meekly tolerate such an indignity, I am searching for the fugitives—­for what purpose I fancy you can guess.  For four years my quest has been fruitless; I have been unable to find a trace of the guilty pair.  A lucky chance at last led me to this secluded corner of the earth, and here I learned that—­but, to be brief, Herr Count, I owe it to my heart and to my honor to ask you this question:  Is not this lady by your side, who is always closely veiled, Ange Barthelmy, my wife?”

“Herr Vicomte Leon de Barthelmy,” calmly replied Count Vavel, “I give you my word of honor as a cavalier that this lady never was your wife.”

The colonel laughed in a peculiar manner.

“Your word of honor, Herr Count, would be entirely satisfactory in all other questions save those relating to the fair sex—­and to war.  You will excuse me, therefore, if I take the liberty to doubt your assertion in this case, and request you to prove that my suspicions are at fault.  Without this proof I will not move from this spot.”

“Then I am very sorry for you, Herr Colonel,” returned Count Vavel, “but I shall be compelled to leave you and your suspicions in possession of this spot.”

He made as if he would pass onward; but the colonel politely but with decision barred the path.

“I must request that you wait a little longer, Herr Count,” he said, his face darkening.

“And why should I?” demanded the count.

“To convince me that the lady on your arm is not my wife,” was the reply, in an excited tone.

“You will have to remain unconvinced,” in an equally excited tone retorted Count Vavel; and for a brief instant it was a question which of the two enraged men would strike the first blow.

The threatening scene was suddenly concluded by the baroness, who flung back her veil, exclaiming:  “Here, Colonel Barthelmy, you may convince yourself that I am not your wife.”

Leon Barthelmy started in amazement, and hastily laid his hand against his lips as if to repress the words which had rushed to them.  Then he bowed with exaggerated courtesy, and said:  “I most humbly beg your pardon, Herr Count Vavel.  This lady is not Ange Barthelmy.  These gentlemen are witnesses that I have asked your pardon in the proper form.”

The colonel’s companions, who had come hastily forward at the threatened conflict between their superior and the count, were gazing in a peculiar manner at the lady whose hospitality they had so lately enjoyed.  Colonel Barthelmy also, although he bowed with elaborate courtesy before the baroness, cast upon her a glance that was full of insulting scorn.