“I hope the illustrious signor found the excellent signor and the beautiful signora in good health,” said the polite host, as he opened the carriage-door for his guest.

“The beautiful signora is sick and the excellent signor is gone,” said the duke, grimly, as he got out.

“Misericordia!” cried the host, with a look of unutterable woe.

“That will do.  Now let me have some supper as soon as you can get it, and when it is ready to be served, come yourself and tell me why I was not informed of the young man’s departure before taking that useless drive to the vine-dresser’s,” said the duke, gravely.

“Pardon, illustrissimo, if I tell you now.  We did not know the young signor had gone.  He did not come this way.  He must have taken another route and got his train at San Stephano,” humbly replied the host.

“Ah! yes! the vine-dresser did tell me he had driven the man over to San Stephano.  Well, then, hurry up my supper,” said the duke, passing on to his room.

The landlord looked after him, muttering to himself: 

“Ah! so not finding the excellent young signor, he has turned his back on the beautiful young signora.  I know it!  The other ancient and illustrious signor, who raised the devil in Beppo’s cottage last year, and carried off the bride, was her father; but this illustrissimo is his father, wherefore he cares not to bring away the lovely signora.”

The host then gave the necessary orders for the duke’s supper to be prepared, and when it was ready he took it up to his guest.

The duke had no more questions to ask, and only two orders to give—­breakfast at seven o’clock on the next morning, and a conveyance to take him to the railway station at half-past seven.

The next day the duke set out on his return to Paris, and on the fourth evening thereafter found himself re-established at his comfortable quarters at Meurice’s.

He changed his dress, dined, and ordered the files of English and French newspapers for the past week to be brought to him.

He was interested only in political affairs when asking for the papers, and so he was quite as much astonished as grieved when his eyes fell upon this paragraph in the Times: 

“A painful rumor reaches us from Paris.  It is to the effect that a certain young and lovely duchess, who made her debut in English society as a bride only twelve months since, has left her home under the protection of a certain Polish count, attached to the Russian Embassy.”

Stricken to the soul with shame, the unhappy duke sank back in his chair and remained as one paralyzed for several minutes; then slowly recovering himself he took up other papers, one by one, to see if they too recorded his dishonor.

Yes! each paper had its paragraph devoted to the one grand sensation of the day—­the flight of the beautiful Duchess of Hereward with the young Russian count; and very few dealt with the deplorable case as delicately as the Times had done.