“No, Monsieur.  This moment he commanded me to approach you.”

“The marquis wishes to speak to me, you say?” The Chevalier looked about him to see how this news affected his friends.  They were exchanging blank inquiries.  “Tell Monsieur le Marquis that I will be with him presently.”

“Now, Monsieur; pardon me, but he wishes to see you now.”

“The devil!  Messieurs, accept my excuses.  My father is old and is doubtless attacked by a sudden chill.  I will return immediately.”

At the Chevalier’s entrance the marquis did not rise; he merely turned his head.  The Chevalier approached his chair, frowning.

“Monsieur,” said the son, “Jehan has interrupted me to say that you desired to speak to me.  Are you ill?”

“Not more than usual,” answered the marquis dryly, catching the sarcasm underlying the Chevalier’s solicitude.  “It is regarding a matter far more serious and important than the state of my health.  I am weary, Monsieur le Comte; weary of your dissipations, your carousals, your companions; I am weary of your continued disrespect.”

“Monsieur, you never taught me to respect you,” quietly, the flush gone from his cheeks.

The marquis nodded toward his wife’s portrait, as if to say:  “You see, Madame?” To his son he said:  “If you can not respect me as your father, at least you might respect my age.”

“Ah; honest age is always worthy of respect.  But is yours honest, Monsieur?  Have you not aged yourself?”

The marquis grew thoughtful at the conflict in view.  “Monsieur, when I asked you to marry Mademoiselle de Montbazon, I forgot to say that she was not my daughter, but legally and legitimately the daughter of her father, the Duc de Montbazon.”

This curious turn threw the Chevalier into a fit of uncontrollable laughter.  The marquis waited patiently.

“I had no such thought.  But your suggestion, had it occurred, might naturally have appealed to me.  The supposition would not have been unreasonable.”

“The lad is a wit!” cried the marquis, in mock admiration.

The Chevalier bowed.  “Monsieur, if my presence at your hotel is not agreeable to you, I will leave at once.  It is a small matter where I spend the night, as I return to court to-morrow.”

“Ah!  And what brought about this good fortune which has returned you to her Majesty’s graces?” The marquis never mentioned Mazarin.

“The cause would scarcely interest you, Monsieur,” coldly.  The roisterers were becoming hilarious once more, and the Chevalier grew restive.

“No, nothing interests me; but one grows weary of wine-bibbers and roisterers, of spendthrifts and sponges.”

“Monsieur is old and can not appreciate the natural exuberance of youth.”

The marquis fumbled at his lips.

“Surely, Monsieur,” went on the Chevalier, the devil of banter in his tones, “surely you are not going to preach me a sermon after having taught me life from your own book?”