I said.

The old woman drew her hand away.

"Humph," she muttered with her mouth full of homard. "I wondered if you
would see that. It was assassination I escaped. It was enough to leave a
mark, eh, mademoiselle?"

"I should think so," I murmured.

The young Count de X. on my right said, in a tone which the duchesse
might have heard:

"When she was a young girl, only nineteen, her husband tied her with
ropes to her bed and set fire to the bed curtains. Her screams brought
the servants and they rescued her."

My fork fell with a clatter.

"What an awful man!" I gasped.

"He was my uncle, mademoiselle!" said the young man, imperturbably,
arranging the gardenia in his buttonhole, "but as you say, he was a bad
lot."

"I beg your pardon!" I exclaimed.

"It is nothing," he answered. "It is no secret. Everybody knows it."

Later in the afternoon I took occasion to apologise to the duchesse for
having referred to the subject.

"Why should you be distressed, mademoiselle," said the old woman,
peering up into my face from beneath her majenta bonnet with her little
watery brown eyes, "such things will go into books and be history a few
years hence. We make history, such families as ours," she added,
proudly.

I turned away rather bewildered and for an hour or two watched Bee and
Mrs. Jimmie being presented to those who called to pay their respects to
our hostess. They were of all descriptions and fascinating to a degree.
Finally the duchesse came up to me bringing a lady whom she introduced
as the Countess Y.

"She is a compatriot of yours, mademoiselle."

It so happened that Bee and Mrs. Jimmie were standing near me and
overheard.

"Ah, you are an American," I said.

"Well," said the countess, moving her shoulders a little uneasily, "I am
an American, but my husband does not like to have me admit it."

It was a small thing. She had a right to deny her nationality if she
liked, but in some way it shocked the three of us alike and we moved
forward as if pulled by one string.

"I think we must be going," said Bee, haughtily.

Jimmie's jaw was so set as we left the house of the countess, and Bee
and Mrs. Jimmie looked so disturbed that I suggested that we drive down
to the Louvre and take one last look at our treasures. Mine are the
Venus de Milo and the Victory, and Jimmie's is the colossal statue of
the river Tiber. Jimmie loves that old giant, Father Tiber, lying there
with the horn of plenty and dear