For all answer the page kissed his hand in a sort of rapture, and flinging back his clustering hair from his classic brows, surveyed the domestics, who had taken their dismissal in silent acquiescence, with a pretty scorn.

“Go, all of you, scum of Paris!” he cried in his clear treble tones—­ “you who know neither God nor devil!  You will have your money—­more than your share—­what else seek you?  You have served one of the noblest of men; and because he is so great and wise and true, you judge him a fiend!  Oh, so like the people of Paris—­they who pervert all things till they think good evil and evil good!  Look you! you have worked for your wages; but I have worked for him—­I would starve with him, I would die for him!  For to me he is not fiend, but Angel!”

Overcome by his own feelings the boy again kissed his master’s hand, and Heliobas gently bade him be silent.  He himself looked round on the still motionless group of servants with an air of calm surprise.

“What are you waiting for?” he asked.  “Consider yourselves dismissed, and at liberty to go where you please.  Any one of you that chooses to apply to me for a character shall not lack the suitable recommendation.  There is no more to say.”

A lively-looking woman with quick restless black eyes stepped forward.

“I am sure,” she said, with a mincing curtsey, “that we are very sorry if we have unintentionally wronged monsieur; but monsieur, who is aware of so many things, must know that many reports are circulated about monsieur that make one to shudder; that madame his sister’s death so lamentable has given to all, what one would say, the horrors; and monsieur must consider that poor servants of virtuous reputation—­”

“So, Jeanne Claudet!” interrupted Heliobas, in a thrilling low tone.  “And what of the child—­the little waxen-faced helpless babe left to die on the banks of the Loire?  But it did not die, Jeanne—­it was rescued; and it shall yet live to loathe its mother!”

The woman uttered a shriek, and fainted.

In the feminine confusion and fuss that ensued, Heliobas, accompanied by his little page and the dog Leo, left the hall and entered his own private room, where for some time I left him undisturbed.

In the early part of the afternoon a note was brought to me.  It was from Colonel Everard, entreating me to come as soon as possible to his wife, who was very ill.

“Since she heard of the death of that beautiful young lady, a death so fearfully sudden and unexpected,” wrote the Colonel, “she has been quite unlike herself—­nervous, hysterical, and thoroughly unstrung.  It will be a real kindness to her if you will come as soon as you can—­she has such, a strong desire for your company.”

I showed this note at once to Heliobas.  He read it, and said: 

“Of course you must go.  Wait till our simple funeral ceremony is over, and then—­we part.  Not for ever; I shall see you often again.  For now I have lost Zara, you are my only female disciple, and I shall not willingly lose sight of you.  You will correspond with me?”