“I’d give a good deal to know his record,” remarked the patroon, contemplatively. “You should be pretty well acquainted with the personnel of the army?”
“It includes everybody nowadays,” replied the diplomat. “I have a large acquaintance, but I am not a directory. A person who knows everybody usually knows nobody––worth knowing! But it seems to me I did know of a Saint-Prosper at the military college at Saumur; or was it at the Ecole d’application d’état-major? Demmed scapegrace, if I am not mistaken; sent to Algiers; must be the same. A hell-rake hole!––full of German and French outcasts! Knaves, adventureres, ready for plunder and loot!”
Here the count, after this outburst, closed his eyes and seemed almost on the point of dropping off, but suddenly straightened himself.
“Let’s get the cards, or the dice, Mauville,” he said, “or I’ll fall into a doze. Such a demmed sleepy climate!”
Soon the count was shuffling and the land baron and he were playing bezique, but in spite of the latter’s drowsiness, he won steadily from his inattentive companion, and, although the noble visitor had some difficulty in keeping his eyes open, what there was of his glance was vigilantly concentrated on his little pile of the coin of the realm. His watchfulness did not relax nor his success desert him, until Mauville finally threw down the cards in disgust, weary alike of such poor luck and the half-nodding automaton confronting him; whereupon the count thrust every piece of 281 gold carefully away in his pocket, absently reached for his hat, drawled a perfunctory farewell and departed in a brown study.
The count’s company, of which he had enjoyed a good deal during the past forty-eight hours, did not improve Mauville’s temper, and he bore his own reflections so grudgingly that inaction became intolerable. Besides, certain words of his caller concerning Saint-Prosper had stimulated his curiosity, and, in casting about for a way to confirm his suspicions, he had suddenly determined in what wise to proceed. Accordingly, the next day he left his rooms, his first visit being to a spacious, substantial residence of stone and lime, with green veranda palings and windows that opened as doors, with a profusion of gauzy curtains hanging behind them. This house, the present home of the Marquis de Ligne, stood in the French quarter, contrasting architecturally with the newer brick buildings erected for the American population. The land baron was ushered into a large reception room, sending his card to the marquis by the neat-appearing colored maid who answered the door.
If surroundings indicate the man, the apartments in which the visitor stood spoke eloquently of the marquis’ taste. Eschewing the stiff, affected classicalism of the Empire style, the furniture was the best work of André Boule and Riesener; tables, with fine marquetry of the last century, made of tulip wood and mahogany; mirrors from Tourlaville; couches with tapestry woven in fanciful designs after Fragonard, 282 in the looms of Beauvais––couches that were made for conversation, not repose; cabinets exemplifying agreeable disposition of lines and masses in the inlaid adornment, containing tiny drawers that fitted with old-time exactness, and, without jamming, opened and shut at the touch. The marquis’ character was stamped by these details; it was old, not new France, to which he belonged.
Soon the marquis’ servant, a stolid, sober man, of virtuous deportment, came down stairs to inform the land baron his master had suffered a relapse and was unable to see any one.
“Last night his temperature was very high,” said the valet. “My master is very ill; more so than I have known him to be in twenty years.”
“You have served the marquis so long?” said the visitor, pausing as he was leaving the room. “Do you remember the Saint-Prosper family?”