“When can I have half an hour with you, Morlache?” said the Viscount
“Whenever it suits you, my Lord. What say you to to-morrow morning at eleven?”
“No, no! let it be later; I must have a ten hours' sleep after all this fatigue, and the sooner I begin the better.”
“Where do you put up, my Lord,—at the Hôtel de l'Arno?” asked the Abbé.
“No; I wish we were there with all my heart; but, to do us honor, they have given us quarters at the 'Crocetto,' that dreary asylum for stray archdukes and vagabond grand-duchesses, in the farthest end of the city. We are surrounded with chamberlains, aides-de-camp, and guards of honor. The only thing they have forgotten is a cook. So I 'll come and dine here to-morrow.”
“You do me great honor, my Lord. I 'm sure the Abbé D'Esmonde will favor us with his company also.”
“If it be possible, I will,” said the Abbé. “Nothing but necessity would make me relinquish so agreeable a prospect.”
“Well, till our next meeting,” said the Viscount, yawning, as he put on his hat “It's too late to expect Midchekoff here to-night, and so good-bye. The streets are clear by this time, I trust.”
“A shrewd fellow, too,” said Morlache, looking after him.
“No, Morlache, not a bit of it!” said D'Esmonde. “Such intellects bear about the same proportion to really clever men as a good swordsman does to a first-rate operator in surgery. They handle a coarse weapon, and they deal with coarse antagonists. Employ them in a subtle negotiation or a knotty problem, and you might as well ask a sergeant of the Blues to take up the femoral artery. Did you not remark awhile ago that, for the sake of a sneer, he actually betrayed a secret about Sir Stafford Onslow's will?”