"No, no, let me whisper!" He brought his lips close to my ear and continued almost inaudibly: "You may please me. You may help a friend. You may oblige—a king."
The last, of course, was the ne plus ultra of inducement according to the count's way of thinking, and he supposed the mere suggestion would vanquish me. Still I pleaded my engagement. He insisted, however, repeating in my ear:—
"Oblige a king! A real king! Not a flimsy fool of bourgeois, who makes of himself the laughing-stock of his people, but a real king. I cannot name him now, but you must know."
We were in a narrow passage leading to the Stone Gallery in Whitehall. He looked about him a moment, then taking me by the arm, led me to the Stone Gallery and thence to the garden. I wanted to stop, but he kept his grasp on my arm, repeating now and then the word "Come" in whispers, till we reached a lonely spot in St. James Park. There he halted, and though there was not a living creature in sight, he brought his lips to my ear and breathed the name, "'Sieur George Hamilton."
I tried not to show that I was startled, but the quickwitted, sharp-eyed Frenchman read me as though I were an open book, and grasping my hand, cried out:—
"Ah, I knew you could tell me. It is to rejoice! I knew it!"
"Tell you what, count?" I asked.
"Tell me where your friend and mine is, or if you will not tell me, take to him a letter. I have been trying to find him this fortnight."
"I cannot tell you where he is, my dear count—"
"Of course not! I do not ask," he interrupted.