kindnesses. But I
have no doubt that you will not object to keeping the miniature a while
longer."

I was speechless with anger and shame, and though I felt the eyes of the
Vicomtesse upon me, I dared not look at her. I heard Auguste but
indistinctly as he continued:--

"Should you need the frame, Monsieur, you will doubtless find it still
with Monsieur Isadore, the Jew, in the Rue Toulouse." With that he
leaped into his boat, seized the paddle, and laughed as he headed into
the current. How long I stood watching him as he drifted lazily in the
sun I know not, but at length the voice of Madame la Vicomtesse aroused
me.

"He is a pleasant person," she said.

CHAPTER VIII

AT LAMARQUE'S

Until then it seemed as if the sun had gotten into my brain and set it
on fire. Her words had the strange effect of clearing my head, though I
was still in as sad a predicament as ever I found myself. There was the
thing in my pocket, still wrapped in Polly Ann's handkerchief. I glanced
at the Vicomtesse shyly, and turned away again. Her face was all
repressed laughter, the expression I knew so well.

"I think we should feel better in the shade, Mr. Ritchie," she said in
English, and, leaping lightly down from the bank, crossed the road again.
I followed her, perforce.

"I will show you the way to Lamarque's," she said.

"Madame la Vicomtesse!" I cried.

Had she no curiosity? Was she going to let pass what Auguste had hinted?
Lifting up her skirts, she swung round and faced me. In her eyes was a
calmness more baffling than the light I had seen there but a moment
since. How to begin I knew not, and yet I was launched.

"Madame la Vicomtesse, there was once a certain miniature painted of
you."

"By Boze, Monsieur," she answered, readily enough. The embarrassment was
all on my side. "We spoke of it last evening. I remember well when it
was taken. It was the costume I wore at Chantilly, and Monsieur le
Prince complimented me, and the next day the painter himself came to our
hotel in the Rue de Bretagne and asked the honor of painting me." She
sighed. "Ah, those were happy days! Her Majesty was very angry with
me."

"And why?" I asked, forgetful of my predicament.

"For sending it to Louisiana, to Antoinette."

"And why did you send it?"

"A whim," said the Vicomtesse. "I had always written twice a year either
to Monsieur de St. Gre or Antoinette, and although I had never seen them,
I loved them. Perhaps it was becau