Doctor Chantry turned from the promenaders below and, with slow and careful speech, gave me my first lesson in history.

“There was a great civil war in France called the Revolution, when part of the people ran mad to kill the other part.  They cut off the heads of the king and queen, and shut up the two royal children in prison.  The dauphin died.”

“What is a dauphin?”

“The heir to the throne of France was called the dauphin.”

“Was he the king’s son?”

“The king’s eldest son.”

“If he had brothers were they dauphins too?”

“No.  He alone was the dauphin.  The last dauphin of France had no living brothers.  He had only a sister.”

“You said the dauphin died.”

“In a prison called the Temple, in Paris.”

“Was the Temple a prison?”

“Yes.”

Madame de Ferrier had said her father and some other person did not believe the dauphin died in the Temple.

“Suppose he was alive?” I hazarded.

“Suppose who was alive?” said Miss Chantry.

“The dauphin.”

“He isn’t.”

“Did all the people believe he was dead?”

“They didn’t care whether he was dead or not.  They went on killing one another until this man Bonaparte put himself at the head of the army and got the upper hand of them.  The French are all fire and tow, and the man who can stamp on them is their idol.”

“You said you hoped you would live to see the Bourbons restored.  Dead people cannot be restored.”

“Oh, the Bourbons are not all dead.  The king of France had brothers.  The elder one of these would be king now if the Bourbons came back to the throne.”

“But he would not be king if the dauphin lived?”

“No,” said Miss Chantry, leaning back indifferently.

My head felt confused, throbbing with the dull ache of healing.  I supported it, resting my elbow on the railing.

The music, under cover of which we had talked, made one of its pauses.  Annabel de Chaumont looked up at us, allowing the gentleman in the long-tailed silk coat to lead her toward the stairs.

V

Miss Chantry exclaimed, and her face stiffened with an expression which I have since learned to know as the fear of dignitaries; experienced even by people who profess to despise the dignitaries.  Mademoiselle de Chaumont shook frizzes around her face, and lifted the scant dress from her satin shod feet as she mounted the stairs.  Without approaching us she sat down on the top step of the landing with young Bonaparte, and beckoned to me.

I went at her bidding and stood by the rail.

“Prince Jerome Bonaparte wants to see you.  I have told him about the bear pen, and Madame Tank, and the mysterious marks on you, and what she said about your rank.”

I must have frowned, for the young gentleman made a laughing sign to me that he did not take Annabel seriously.  He had an amiable face, and accepted me as one of the oddities of the country.