“But he is accessible, wherever he is.  He doesn’t deny himself to the meanest soldier.  Why should he refuse to see a noble of the class he is always conciliating when he can?”

“Introduce me to the Marquis de Ferrier,” I finally said, “and let me see if I can talk against time while you get your emperor out of his way.”

I thought desperately of revealing to the old royalist what I believed myself to be, what Eagle and he believed me to be, and commanding him, as his rightful prince, to content himself with less effusive and less public gratitude to an usurper.  He would live in the country, shrinking so naturally from the court that a self-imposed appearance there need never be repeated.

I believe this would have succeeded.  A half hour more of time might have saved years of comfort to Eagle—­for De Chaumont was generous—­and have changed the outcome of my own life.  But in scant fifteen minutes our fate was decided.

De Chaumont and I had moved with our heads together, from corridor to antechamber, from antechamber to curtained salon of the lower floor.  The private apartments of the Bonaparte family were thrown open, and in the mahogany furnished room, all hung with yellow satin, I noticed a Swiss clock which pointed its minute finger to a quarter before eleven.  I made no hurry.  My errand was not accomplished.  Skenedonk would wait for me, and even dare a search if he became suspicious.

The count, knowing what Madame de Ferrier considered me, perhaps knew my plan.  He turned back at once assenting.

The Marquis and Marquise de Ferrier were that instant going up the grand staircase, and would be announced.  Eagle turned her face above me, the long line of her throat uplifted, and went courageous and smiling on her way.  The marquis had adapted himself to the court requirements of the Empire.  Noble gentleman of another period, he stalked a piteous masquerader where he had once been at home.

Count de Chaumont grasped my arm and we hurried up the stairs after them.  The end of a great and deep room was visible, and I had a glimpse, between heads and shoulders, of a woman standing in the light of many lusters.  She parted her lips to smile, closing them quickly, but having shown little dark teeth.  She was of exquisite shape, her face and arms and bosom having a clean fair polish like the delicate whiteness of a magnolia, as I have since seen that flower in bloom.  She wore a small diadem in her hair, and her short-waisted robe trailed far back among her ladies.  I knew without being told that this was the empress of the French.

De Chaumont’s hand was on my arm, but another hand touched my shoulder.  I looked behind me.  This time it was not an old woman, or a laborer in a blouse, or a soldier; but I knew my pursuer in his white court dress.  Officer of the law, writ in the lines of his face, to my eyes appeared all over him.

“Monsieur Veeleeum!”