The Marquise is afraid of her.  And when first Helene was presented formally she made such a witty retort to the Queen’s sally that her Majesty insisted upon her coming to court.  On every New Year’s day I have always sent a present of coffee and perique to my cousin the Marquis, and it is Mademoiselle who writes to thank us.  Parole d’honneur, her letters make me see again the people amongst whom she moves,—­the dukes and duchesses, the cardinals, bishops, and generals.  She draws them to the life, Monsieur, with a touch that makes them all ridiculous.  His Majesty does not escape.  God forgive him, he is indeed an amiable, weak person for calling a States General.  And the Queen, a frivolous lady, but true to those whom she loves, and beginning now to realize the perils of the situation.”  He paused.  “Is it any wonder that Auguste has fallen in love with his cousin, Monsieur?  That he loses his head, forgets that he is a gentleman, and steals her portrait from his sister!”

Had I not been so occupied with my own fate in the outcome of this inquisition, I should have been sorry for Auguste.  And yet this feeling could not have lasted, for the young gentleman sprang to his feet, cast a glance at me which was not without malignance, and faced his father, his lips twitching with anger and fear.  Monsieur de St. Gre sat undisturbed.

“He is so much in love with the portrait, Monsieur, that he loses it.”

“Loses it!” cried Auguste.

“Precisely,” said his father, dryly, “for Mr. Ritchie tells me he found it—­at Madame Bouvet’s, was it not, Monsieur?”

Auguste looked at me.

“Mille diables!” he said, and sat down again heavily.

“Mr. Ritchie has returned it to your sister, a service which puts him heavily in our debt,” said Monsieur de St. Gre.  “Now, sir,” he added to me, rising, “you have had a tiresome day.  I will show you to your room, and in the morning we will begin our—­investigations.”

He clapped his hands, the silent mulatto appeared with a new candle, and I followed my host down the gallery to a room which he flung open at the far end.  A great four-poster bedstead was in one corner, and a polished mahogany dresser in the other.

“We have saved some of our family furniture from the fire, Mr. Ritchie,” said Monsieur de St. Gre; “that bed was brought from Paris by my father forty years ago.  I hope you will rest well.”

He set the candle on the table, and as he bowed there was a trace of an enigmatical smile about his mouth.  How much he knew of Auguste’s transaction I could not fathom, but the matter and the scarcely creditable part I had played in it kept me awake far into the night.  I was just falling into a troubled sleep when a footstep on the gallery startled me back to consciousness.  It was followed by a light tap on the door.

“Monsieur Reetchie,” said a voice.

It was Monsieur Auguste.  He was not an imposing figure in his nightrail, and by the light of the carefully shaded candle he held in his hand I saw that he had hitherto deceived me in the matter of his calves.  He stood peering at me as I lay under the mosquito bar.