In the corner the two strangers had apparently finished their game; one of them arose, and standing with his back to the merry company at the table, he adjusted with much deliberation his large triple caped coat. As he did so, he gave one quick glance all around him. Everyone was busy laughing and chatting, and he murmured the words “All safe!”: his companion then, with the alertness borne of long practice, slipped on to his knees in a moment, and the next had crept noiselessly under the oak bench. The stranger then, with a loud “Good-night,” quietly walked out of the coffee-room.
Not one of those at the supper table had noticed this curious and silent manœuvre, but when the stranger finally closed the door of the coffee-room behind him, they all instinctively sighed a sigh of relief.
“Alone, at last!” said Lord Antony, jovially.
Then the young Vicomte de Tournay rose, glass in hand, and with the graceful affectation peculiar to the times, he raised it aloft, and said in broken English,—
“To His Majesty George Three of England. God bless him for his hospitality to us all, poor exiles from France.”
“His Majesty the King!” echoed Lord Antony and Sir Andrew as they drank loyally to the toast.
“To His Majesty King Louis of France,” added Sir Andrew, with solemnity. “May God protect him, and give him victory over his enemies.”
Everyone rose and drank this toast in silence. The fate of the unfortunate King of France, then a prisoner of his own people, seemed to cast a gloom even over Mr. Jellyband’s pleasant countenance.
“And to M. le Comte de Tournay de Basserive,” said Lord Antony, merrily. “May we welcome him in England before many days are over.”
“Ah, Monsieur,” said the Comtesse, as with a slightly trembling hand she conveyed her glass to her lips, “I scarcely dare to hope.”