Marillac’s eyes turned involuntarily toward the portraits, and other picturesque details of a room which was worthy the attention of a connoisseur; but he felt that the moment was not opportune for indulging in artistic contemplation, and that he must leave the dead for the living.

“Ladies,” said he, “I ought, first of all, to ask your pardon for thus intruding without having had the honor of an introduction.  I hoped to find here Monsieur de Bergenheim, with whom I am on very intimate terms.  I was told that he was at the chateau.”

“My husband’s friends do not need to be presented at his house,” said Clemence; “Monsieur de Bergenheim probably will return soon.”  And with a gracious gesture she motioned the visitor to a seat.

“Your name is not unknown to me,” said Mademoiselle de Corandeuil in her turn, having succeeded in calming Constance’s agitation.  “I remember having heard Monsieur de Bergenheim mention you often.”

“We were at college together, although I am a few years younger than Christian.”

“But,” exclaimed Madame de Bergenheim, struck by some sudden thought, “there is more than a college friendship between you.  Are you not, Monsieur, the person who saved my husband’s life in 1830?”

Marillac smiled, bowed his head, and seated himself.  Mademoiselle de Corandeuil herself could not but graciously greet her nephew’s preserver, had he had a moustache as long as that of the Shah of Persia, who ties his in a bow behind his neck.

After the exchange of a few compliments, Madame de Bergenheim, with the amiability of a mistress of the house who seeks subjects of conversation that may show off to best advantage the persons she receives, continued: 

“My husband does not like to talk of himself, and never has told us the details of this adventure, in which he ran such great danger.  Will you be kind enough to gratify our curiosity on this point?”

Marillac, among his other pretensions, had that of being able to relate a story in an impressive manner.  These words were as pleasing to his ears as the request for a song is to a lady who requires urging, although she is dying to sing.

“Ladies,” said he, crossing one leg over the other and leaning upon one arm of his chair, “it was on the twenty-eighth of July, 1830; the disastrous decrees had produced their effects; the volcano which—­”

“Pardon me, Monsieur, if I interrupt you,” said Mademoiselle de Corandeuil, quickly; “according to my opinion, and that of many others, the royal decrees you speak of were good and necessary.  The only mistake of Charles Tenth was not to have fifty thousand men around Paris to force their acceptance.  I am only a woman, Monsieur, but if I had had under my command twenty cannon upon the quays, and as many upon the boulevards, I assure you that your tricolored flag never should have floated over the Tuileries.”

“Pitt and Cobourg!” said the artist between his teeth, as, with an astonished air, he gazed at the old lady; but his common-sense told him that republicanism was not acceptable within this castle.  Besides, remembering the mission with which he was charged, he did not think his conscience would feel much hurt if he made a little concession of principles and manoeuvred diplomatically.