“My steward,” said the lady.
“You are in error,” said the host bowing; “this is the Duke of Richelieu, whom I readily recognize and who would be very ungrateful if he did not recall one who saved his life—I might say drew him back from among the dead.”
“Oh, do you hear that, duke?” exclaimed the lady laughing.
“You, saved my life, count?” questioned Richelieu, in consternation.
“Yes, in Vienna, in 1725, when your grace was Ambassador there.”
“You were not born at that date!”
“I must have been, my lord,” replied Balsamo smiling, “for I met you dying, say dead, on a handbarrow with a fine swordthrust right through your midriff. By the same token, I dropped a little of my elixir on the gash—there, at the very place where you wear lace rather too rich for a steward!”
“But you are scarce over thirty, count,” expostulated the duke.
“But you must see that you are facing a wizard,” said the countess bursting into laughter.
“I am stupefied. In that case you would be—— ”