“This Saint-Prosper you met was a soldier?” he asked, and his voice trembled. “Ernest Saint-Prosper?”
“Yes; he was a soldier; served in Africa, I believe. You knew him?” Turning to the marquis in surprise.
“Knew him! He was my ward, the rascal!” cried the other violently. “He was, but now––ingrate!––traitor!––better if he were dead!”
“You speak bitterly, Monsieur le Marquis?” said the patroon curiously.
“Bitterly!––after his conduct!––he is no longer anything to me! He is dead to me––dead!”
“How did he deviate from the line of duty?” asked 232 Mauville, with increasing interest, and an eagerness his light manner did not disguise. “A sin of omission or commission?”
“Eh? What?” mumbled the old nobleman, staring at his questioner, and, on a sudden, becoming taciturn. “A family affair!” he added finally, with dignity. “Not worth repeating! But what was he doing there?”
“He had joined a strolling band of players,” said the other, concealing his disappointment as best he might at his companion’s evasive reply.
“A Saint-Prosper become an actor!” shouted the marquis, his anger again breaking forth. “Has he not already dragged an honored name in the dust? A stroller! A player!” The marquis fairly gasped at the enormity of the offense; for a moment he was speechless, and then asked feebly: “What caused him to take such a humiliating step?”
“He is playing the hero of a romance,” said the land baron, moodily. “I confess he has excellent taste, though! The figure of a Juno––eyes like stars on an August night––features proud as Diana––the voice of a siren––in a word, picture to yourself your fairest conquest, Monsieur le Marquis, and you will have a worthy counterpart of this rose of the wilderness!”