They traversed several groups of people and bent their steps in the direction of the chateau. The Prince was advancing toward the terrace, with an elegantly dressed and beautiful woman on his arm. Savinien, in the midst of a circle of dandies, was picking the passers-by to pieces in his easy-going way. Pierre and Marechal came behind these young men without being noticed.
“Who is that hanging on the arm of our dear Prince?” asked a little fat man, girt in a white satin waistcoat, and a spray of white lilac in his buttonhole.
“Eh! Why, Le Brede, my boy, you don’t know anything!” cried Savinien in a bantering, jocose tone.
“Because I don’t know that lovely fair woman?” said Le Brede, in a piqued voice. “I don’t profess to know the names of all the pretty women in Paris!”
“In Paris? That woman from Paris? You have not looked at her. Come, open your eyes. Pure English style, my friend.”
The dandies roared with laughter. They had at once recognized the pure English style. They were not men to be deceived. One of them, a tall, dark fellow, named Du Tremblays, affected an aggrieved air, and said:
“Le Brede, my dear fellow, you make us blush for you!”
The Prince passed, smiling and speaking in a low voice to the beautiful Englishwoman, who was resting the tips of her white gloved fingers on her cavalier’s arm.
“Who is she?” inquired Le Brede, impatiently.
“Eh, my dear fellow, it is Lady Harton, a cousin of the Prince. She is extremely rich, and owns a district in London.”