The servant brought it to him. The marquis leered awfully over his shoulder once more. “Your health, my guest!” he exclaimed, laughing harshly. “But my hat, François; I have business to perform, important business!”
He ambled out of the room. On the street he was all politeness, removing his hat to a dark brunette who rolled by in her carriage, and pausing to chat with another representative of the sex of the blond type. Then he gaily sauntered on, until reaching the theater he stopped and made a number of inquiries. Who was the manager of Constance Carew? Where was he to be found? “At the St. Charles hotel?” He was obliged to Monsieur, the ticket-seller, and wished him good-day.
Entering the hotel, he sent his card to Barnes, requesting an interview, and the manager, overcome by the honor of such a visit, responded with alacrity. The customary formalities over, the nobleman congratulated Barnes on the performance and led the conversation to the young actress.
“Pardon my curiosity,” he said, with apparent carelessness, “but I’m sure I remember an actress of the same name in London––many years ago?”
“Her mother, undoubtedly,” replied the manager, proudly.
“She was married, was she not, to––”
“A scoundrel who took her for his wife in one church and repudiated the ties through another denomination!”
“Ah, a French-English marriage!” said the marquis, blandly. “An old device! But what was this lover’s name?”
“This husband’s, my lord!”