rant waste, nor whose principles permitted debt.'

By this time they had reached a small pavilion in the wood, at the door
of which a sentry was stationed.

'Here we are,' cried Dillon; 'this is my quarter: come up and see how
luxuriously a Chef d'Escadron is lodged.'

Nothing, indeed, could be more simple or less pretentious than the
apartment into which Gerald was now ushered. The furniture was of a dark
nut-wood, and the articles few and inexpensive.

'I know you are astonished at this humble home. You have heard many a
story of the luxury and splendour of the superior officers of our corps,
how they walk on Persian carpets and lounge on ottomans covered with
Oriental silks. Well, it's all true, Gerald; the only exception is this
poor quarter before you. I, too, might do like them. I might tell the
royal commissary to furnish these rooms as luxuriously as I pleased. The
civil list never questions or cavils--it only pays. Perhaps, were I a
Frenchman born, I should have little scruple about this; but, like you,
Fitzgerald, I am an alien--only a guest, no more.'

The Count, without summoning a servant, produced a bottle and glasses
from a small cupboard in the wall, and drawing a table to the window,
whence a view extended over the forest, motioned to Gerald to be seated.

'This is not the first time words have passed between you and Maurepas,'
said Dillon, after they had filled and emptied their glasses.

'It happens too frequently,' said Gerald, with warmth. 'From the day I
bought that Limousin horse of his we have never been true friends.'

'I heard as much. He thought him unrideable, and you mounted him on
parade, and that within a week.'

'But I offered to let him have the animal back when I subdued him. I
knew what ailed the horse; he wanted courage--all his supposed vice was
only fear.'

'You only made bad worse by reflecting on Maurepas's riding,' said
Dillon, smiling.

'_Par Dieu!_ I never thought of that,' broke in Fitzgerald.

'Then there was something occurred at court, wasn't there?'

'Oh, a mere trifle. He could not dance the second figure in the minuet
with the Princesse de Cleves, and the Queen called me to take his
place.'

'Worse than the affair of the horse, far worse,' muttered Dillon;
'Maurepas cannot forgive you either.'

'I shall assuredly not ask him, sir,' was the prompt rejoinder.

'And then you laughed at his Italian, didn't you? The "Nonce" said that
you caught him up in a