Madame had the air, and a title carried with a Spanish soldier in New Orleans in those days.  The orderly fairly swept the ground and led us through a court where the sun drew bewildering hot odors from the fruits and flowers, into a darkened room which was the Baron’s cabinet.  I remember it vaguely, for my head was hot and throbbing from my exertions in such a climate.  It was a new room,—­the hotel being newly built,—­with white walls, a picture of his Catholic Majesty and the royal arms of Spain, a map of Louisiana, another of New Orleans fortified, some walnut chairs, a desk with ink and sand and a seal, and a window, the closed lattice shutters of which showed streaks of light green light.  These doubtless opened on the Royal Road and looked across the levee esplanade on the waters of the Mississippi.  Madame la Vicomtesse seated herself, and with a gesture which was an order bade me do likewise.

“He will be angry, the dear Baron,” she said.  “He is harassed to death with republics.  No offence, Mr. Ritchie.  He is up at dawn looking to the forts and palisades to guard against such foolish enterprises as this of Mr. Temple’s.  And to be waked out of a well-earned siesta—­to save a gentleman who has come here to make things unpleasant for him—­is carrying a joke a little far.  Mais—­que voulez-vous?”

She gave a little shrug to her slim shoulders as she smiled at me, and she seemed not a whit disturbed concerning the conversation with his Excellency.  I wondered whether this were birth, or training, or both, or a natural ability to cope with affairs.  The women of her order had long been used to intercede with sovereigns, to play a part in matters of state.  Suddenly I became aware that she was looking at me.

“What are you thinking of?” she demanded, and continued without waiting for a reply, “you strange man.”

“I was thinking how odd it was,” I replied, “that I should have known you all these years by a portrait, that we should finally be thrown together, and that you should be so exactly like the person I had supposed you to be.”

She lowered her eyes, but she did not seem to take offence.  I meant none.

“And you,” she answered, “are continually reminding me of an Englishman I knew when I was a girl.  He was a very queer person to be attached to the Embassy,—­not a courtier, but a serious, literal person like you, Mr. Ritchie, and he resembled you very much.  I was very fond of him.”

“And—­what became of him?” I asked.  Other questions rose to my lips, but I put them down.

“I will tell you,” she answered, bending forward a little.  “He did something which I believe you might have done.  A certain Marquis spoke lightly of a lady, an Englishwoman at our court, and my Englishman ran him through one morning at Versailles.”

She paused, and I saw that her breath was coming more quickly at the remembrance.

“And then?”

“He fled to England.  He was a younger son, and poor.  But his King heard of the affair, had it investigated, and restored him to the service.  I have never seen him since,” she said, “but I have often thought of him.  There,” she added, after a silence, with a lightness which seemed assumed, “I have given you a romance.  How long the Baron takes to dress!”