“Bon soir, mon pere,” he said.

“Like a dutiful son,” said Monsieur de St. Gre, “you heard I was in town, and called to pay your respects, I am sure.  I am delighted to find you.  In fact, I came to town for that purpose.”

“Lisette—­” began Auguste.

“Thought that I did not wish to be disturbed, no doubt,” said his father.  “Walk in, Auguste.”

Monsieur Auguste’s slim figure appeared in the doorway.  He caught sight of me, halted, backed, and stood staring with widened eyes.  The candles threw their light across his shoulder on the face of the elder Monsieur de St. Gre.  Auguste was a replica of his father, with the features minimized to regularity and the brow narrowed.  The complexion of the one was a clear saffron, while the boy’s skin was mottled, and he was not twenty.

“What is the matter?” said Monsieur de St. Gre.

“You—­you have a visitor!” stammered Auguste, with a tact that savored of practice.  Yet there was a sorry difference between this and the haughty young patrician who had sold me the miniature.

“Who brings me good news,” said Monsieur de St. Gre, in English.  “Mr. Ritchie, allow me to introduce my son, Auguste.”

I felt Monsieur de St. Gre’s eyes on me as I bowed, and I began to think I was in near as great a predicament as Auguste.  Monsieur de St. Gre was managing the matter with infinite wisdom.

“Sit down, my son,” he said; “you have no doubt been staying with your uncle.”  Auguste sat down, still staring.

“Does your aunt’s health mend?”

“She is better to-night, father,” said the son, in English which might have been improved.

“I am glad of it,” said Monsieur de St. Gre, taking a chair.  “Andre, fill the glasses.”

The silent, linen-clad mulatto poured out the Madeira, shot a look at Auguste, and retired softly.

“There has been a heavy rain, Monsieur,” said Monsieur de St. Gre to me, “but I think the air is not yet cleared.  I was about to say, Mr. Ritchie, when my son called to pay his respects, that the miniature of which we were speaking is one of the most remarkable paintings I have ever seen.”  Auguste’s thin fingers were clutching the chair.  “I have never beheld Mademoiselle Helene de St. Gre, for my cousin, the Marquis, was not married when I left France.  He was a captain in a regiment of his Majesty’s Mousquetaires, since abolished.  But I am sure that the likeness of Mademoiselle must be a true one, for it has the stamp of a remarkable personality, though Helene can be only eighteen.  Women, with us, mature quickly, Monsieur.  And this portrait tallies with what I have heard of her character.  You no doubt observed the face, Monsieur,—­that of a true aristocrat.  But I was speaking of her character.  When she was twelve, she said something to a cardinal for which her mother made her keep her room a whole day.  For Mademoiselle would not retract, and, pardieu, I believe his Eminence was wrong.