ends have made the journey to Paris for the
occasion--Madame de Chantonnay and Albert, Madame de Rathe and many from
the Vendee and the West whom you have met on your journey. And to-night
one may speak without fear, for none will be present who are not vouched
for by the Almanac de Gotha. There are no Royalists pour rire or pour
vivre to-night. You have but time to change your clothes and dine.
Your luggage arrived yesterday. You will forgive the stupidity of old
servants who have forgotten their business. Come, I will lead the way
and show you your rooms."

He took a candle and did the honours of the deserted dust-ridden house
in the manner of the high calling which had been his twenty years ago
when Charles X. was king. For some there lingers a certain pathos in
the sight of a belated survival, while the majority of men and women
are ready to smile at it instead. And yet the Monarchy lasted eight
centuries and the Revolution eight years. Perhaps Fate may yet exact
payment for the excesses of those eight years from a nation for which
the watching world already prepares a secondary place in the councils of
empire.

The larger room had been assigned to Loo. There was a subtle difference
in the Marquis's manner toward him. He made an odd bow as he quitted the
room.

"There," said Colville, whose room communicated with this great
apartment by a dressing-room and two doors. He spoke in English, as they
always did when they were alone together. "There--you are launched. You
are lance, my friend. I may say you are through the shoals now and out
on the high seas--"

He paused, candle in hand, and looked round the room with a reflective
smile. It was obviously the best room in the house, with a fireplace as
wide as a gate, where logs of pine burnt briskly on high iron dogs.
The bed loomed mysteriously in one corner with its baldachin of Gobelin
tapestry. Here, too, the dim scent of fallen monarchy lingered in the
atmosphere. A portrait of Louis XVI. in a faded frame hung over the
mantelpiece.

"And the time will come," pursued Colville, with his melancholy,
sympathetic smile, "when you will find it necessary to drop the
pilot--to turn your face seaward and your back upon old recollections
and old associations. You cannot make an omelette without breaking eggs,
my friend."

"Oh yes," replied Barebone, with a brisk movement of the head, "I shall
have to forget Farlingford."

Colville had moved toward the door that led