The Marquis du Plessy drew himself together with a strong shudder.  I had the desire to stand between him and the shocks of an alien world.  Yet there was about him a tenacious masculine strength, an adroitness of self-protection which needed no champion.

“Did the Indian tell you about a man named Bellenger?” I inquired.

“Bellenger is part of the old story about the dauphin’s removal.  I heard of him first at Coblenz.  And I understand now that he is following you with another dauphin, and objecting to you in various delicate ways.  Napoleon Bonaparte is master of France, and in the way to be master of Europe, because he has a nice sense of the values of men, and the best head for detail that was ever formed in human shape.  There is something almost supernatural in his grasp of affairs.  He lets nothing escape him.  The only mistake he ever made was butchering the young Duke d’Enghien—­the courage and clearness of the man wavered that one instant; and by the way, he borrowed my name for the duke’s incognito during the journey under arrest!  England, Russia, Austria and Sweden are combining against Napoleon.  He will beat them.  For while other men sleep, or amuse themselves, or let circumstance drive them, he is planning success and providing for all possible contingencies.  Take a leaf out of the general’s book, my boy.  No enemy is contemptible.  If you want to force the hand of fortune—­scheme!—­scheme!—­all the time!—­out-scheme the other fellow!”

The marquis rose from the table.

“I am longer winded,” he said, “than a man named De Chaumont, who has been importuning Bonaparte, in season and out of season, to reinstate an American emigre, a Madame de Ferrier.”

“Will Bonaparte restore her lands?” I asked, feeling my voice like a rope in my throat.

“Do you know her family?”

“I knew Madame de Ferrier in America.”

“Their estate lies next to mine.  And what is the little De Ferrier like since she is grown?”

“A beautiful woman.”

“Ah—­ah!  Bonaparte’s plan will then be easy of execution.  You may see her this evening here in the Faubourg St. Germain.  I believe she is to appear at Madame de Permon’s, where Bonaparte may look in.”

My host bolted the doors of his private cabinet, and took from the secret part of a wall cupboard the queen’s jewel-case.  We opened it between us.  The first thing I noticed was a gold snuffbox, set with portraits of the king, the queen, and their two children.

How I knew them I cannot tell.  Their pictured faces had never been put before my conscious eyes until that moment.  Other portraits might have been there.  I had no doubt, no hesitation.

I was on my knees before the face I had seen in spasms of remembrance—­with oval cheeks, and fair hair rolled high—­and open neck—­my royal mother!

Next I looked at the king, heavier of feature, honest and straight gazing, his chin held upward; at the little sister, a smaller miniature of the queen; at the softly molded curves of the child that was myself!