A very different personality sat in expectation of his return, feeding patience with cognac in the public room. It was General d'Albignac, the King's Master of the Horse.
At sight of Steven this worthy sprang to his feet and saluted with a great air of cordiality, running over the Austrian's name and title, and announcing his own in French, all glib affability.
"We have met before, sir," sternly said Steven, who was in fine humour for destruction.
"I think not," answered the equerry. His eyes had a red glitter which denied his smile. "I think not, M. le Comte. Nay, I am positive it is the first time I have had the pleasure of addressing you."
Steven shrugged his shoulders.
"Have it so," he said contemptuously, and glanced at the cheek against which his hand had once exulted. "After all, it is you who had the more striking cause to remember.—What do you want with me?" he added, with British bluntness.
D'Albignac's smile was stiff over his white teeth; his fingers twitched upon the bundle of papers he had pulled out of his sabretasche. But the Master of the Horse had no illusions as to the length of Jerome's power; and, on the other hand, that document, once properly endorsed, meant his own future prosperity. It was worth a minute's urbanity towards one whom otherwise it would have been relief to hew down.
"I have business with you—business of delicacy, sir; I trust, easily despatched. A short private conversation between us." He cast a meaning look at the French officers playing piquet and tric-trac in their proximity.
"I can conceive no business," said Steven, "between us, sir, but one. Nevertheless, come to my room. I can promise you that my answer will be of quick despatch."
So he walked up the ill-lit stairs, with d'Albignac clanking at his heels, and pushed his way into his bed chamber before him—the creature should not be treated otherwise than as the dog he was.