“I don’t know what you can have heard,” said Newman.

“Oh, you have your legende.  We have heard that you have had a career the most checkered, the most bizarre.  What is that about your having founded a city some ten years ago in the great West, a city which contains to-day half a million of inhabitants?  Isn’t it half a million, messieurs?  You are exclusive proprietor of this flourishing settlement, and are consequently fabulously rich, and you would be richer still if you didn’t grant lands and houses free of rent to all newcomers who will pledge themselves never to smoke cigars.  At this game, in three years, we are told, you are going to be made president of America.”

The duchess recited this amazing “legend” with a smooth self-possession which gave the speech to Newman’s mind, the air of being a bit of amusing dialogue in a play, delivered by a veteran comic actress.  Before she had ceased speaking he had burst into loud, irrepressible laughter.  “Dear duchess, dear duchess,” the marquis began to murmur, soothingly.  Two or three persons came to the door of the room to see who was laughing at the duchess.  But the lady continued with the soft, serene assurance of a person who, as a duchess, was certain of being listened to, and, as a garrulous woman, was independent of the pulse of her auditors.  “But I know you are very remarkable.  You must be, to have endeared yourself to this good marquis and to his admirable world.  They are very exacting.  I myself am not very sure at this hour of really possessing it.  Eh, Bellegarde?  To please you, I see, one must be an American millionaire.  But your real triumph, my dear sir, is pleasing the countess; she is as difficult as a princess in a fairy tale.  Your success is a miracle.  What is your secret?  I don’t ask you to reveal it before all these gentlemen, but come and see me some day and give me a specimen of your talents.”

“The secret is with Madame de Cintre,” said Newman.  “You must ask her for it.  It consists in her having a great deal of charity.”

“Very pretty!” said the duchess.  “That’s a very nice specimen, to begin with.  What, Bellegarde, are you already taking monsieur away?”

“I have a duty to perform, dear friend,” said the marquis, pointing to the other groups.

“Ah, for you I know what that means.  Well, I have seen monsieur; that is what I wanted.  He can’t persuade me that he isn’t very clever.  Farewell.”

As Newman passed on with his host, he asked who the duchess was.  “The greatest lady in France,” said the marquis.  M. de Bellegarde then presented his prospective brother-in-law to some twenty other persons of both sexes, selected apparently for their typically august character.  In some cases this character was written in good round hand upon the countenance of the wearer; in others Newman was thankful for such help as his companion’s impressively brief intimation contributed to the discovery of it.