of the clothing establishment came the Marquis in all his glory—­more glorious, in truth, than Solomon, and more melancholy than the melancholy Jaques.  And yet for an instant the Count Siccatif de Courtray was possessed by the absurd fancy that this stately personage was Jaune d’Antimoine!  Truly, here was the same tall, handsome figure, the same easy, elegant carriage, the same cut of hair and beard.  But the resemblance went no further, for beard and hair were gray almost to whiteness, the face was pale and old, and the clothes, so far from being desperately seedy, were more resplendent even than the Count’s own.  No, the thought was incredible, preposterous, and yet the Count could not discharge it from his mind.  He stamped his foot savagely; this mystery was becoming more interesting than pleasing.

In the crowd that the Marquis drew in his wake, as he slowly, sadly sauntered up Broadway, the Count had no difficulty in following him unobserved.  The situation was that of the previous day, only it was intensified, and therefore, to its hero, the more horrible.  The benevolent people with stray fatherless young women to dispose of were out in greater force; the detectives were more aggressive; the newspaper people were more persistent; the general public was more keenly interested in the whole performance.  And Rose—­most dreadful of all—­was more outrageous than ever!  The Count grew almost green with rage during the three hours that he was a witness of this young woman’s scandalous conduct.  A dozen times she met the Marquis in the course of his walk, and each time that she met him she greeted him with a yet more tender smile.  A curious fact that at first surprised, then puzzled, then comforted the Count was the very obvious annoyance which these flattering attentions caused their recipient.  Evidently, he persistently endeavored to evade the meetings which Rose as persistently and more successfully endeavored to force upon him.  Within the scope of M. de Courtary’s comprehension only one reason seemed to be sufficient to explain the determination on the part of the Marquis to resist the advances of a singularly attractive young woman, whose good disposition toward him was so conspicuously, though so irregularly, manifested:  a fear of recognition.  And this reason adjusted itself in a striking manner to the queer notion that had come into his mind that the Marquis was an ideal creation whose reality was Jeaune d’Antimoine.  The thought was absurd, irrational, but it grew stronger and stronger within him—­and became an assured conviction when, shortly after the promenade of the Marquis had ended, Jaune came forth from the clothing store in his normal condition of shabbiness and youth.  The Count was not in all respects a praiseworthy person, but among his vices was not that of stupidity.  Without any very tremendous mental effort he grasped the fact that his rival had sold himself into bondage as a walking advertisement, and, knowing this, a righteous exultation filled his soul.  Jaune’s destiny, so far as Mademoiselle Carthame was concerned, he felt was in his power:  and he was perplexed by no nice doubts as to the purpose to which the power that he had gained should be applied.