‘Your Excellency indulged too freely in liquor, and we had to put you to bed.’
‘Umph!’ mused the Count; ‘it was kind; now, tell me, did your mistress, Madame St. Joseph, know of my condition?’
‘She did.’
‘Was she angry?’
‘Well, Excellency, she certainly wasn’t pleased.’
‘Ah! I fear I have made a bea—— a fool of myself. Give me the wherewith to put myself in a presentable condition, and I will see madam. By the way, has she risen yet?’
‘Oh yes.’
‘Good; as soon as I have performed my toilet, return here and conduct me to your mistress.’
Roko bowed and withdrew. In half an hour he came back again, and, followed by the Count, led the way to Madame St. Joseph’s boudoir, a very comfortable little retreat, daintily furnished, cosy and bright with knick-knacks, cushions, curtains, luxurious rugs, and warmed to the high temperature beloved of Russians by means of a polished metal radiating stove. Dressed in a most elegant fur-trimmed dressing-gown, madame was stretched upon a divan. Beside her was a Moorish table, on which stood coffee and cigarettes. She was smoking as the Count entered. Without rising, she extended her delicate white hand to him, and, smiling sweetly, said:
‘Pray be seated, Count. Roko, pour out some coffee. Will you take vodka or cognac with it, Count?’