“Do you mean the Pracontal—the Pretender himself?”
“Of course. It can be no other. Can you imagine anything so outrageously in bad taste? Limayrac must know who this man is, what claims he is putting forward, who he assumes to be; and yet he proposes to present him here. Of course I shall refuse him.”
“No, cara, nothing of the kind. Receive him by all means. You or I have nothing to do with law or lawyers,—he does not come here to prosecute his suit. On the contrary, I accept his wish to make our acquaintance as an evidence of a true gentlemanlike instinct; and, besides, I am most eager to see him.”
“Remember, Gusta, the Culduffs are coming here, and they will regard this as a studied insult. I think I should feel it such myself in their place.”
“I don't think they could. I am certain they ought not. Does any one believe that every person in a room with four or five hundred is his dear friend, devoted to him, and dying to serve him? If you do not actually throw these people together, how are they more in contact in your salon than in the Piazza del Popolo?”
“This note is in pencil, too,” went she on. “I suppose it was written here. Where is the Baron de Limayrac?”
“In his carriage, my Lady, at the door.”
“You see, dearest, you cannot help admitting him.”
The Countess had but time to say a few hurried words to the servant, when the doors were thrown open, and the company began to pour in. Arrivals followed each other in rapid succession, and names of every country in Europe were announced, as their titled owners—soldiers, statesmen, cardinals, or ministers—passed on, and grandes dames in all the plenitude of splendid toilette, sailed proudly by, glittering with jewels and filmy in costly lace.
While the Countess Balderoni was exchanging salutations with a distinguished guest, the Baron de Limayrac stood respectfully waiting his time to be recognized.