“Precisely so; and he gave our fellows some hard knocks before his frigate went on the reefs.”
“Strange that the name should be my own. I never heard of an English branch of our family.”
A quizzical smile passed over the face of the Minister, adding to his visitor’s mystification. “But suppose he were English, yet French too?” he rejoined.
“I fail to understand the entanglement,” answered the Duke stiffly.
“He is an Englishman whose name and native language are French—he speaks as good French as your own.”
The Duke peevishly tapped a chair with his stick. “I am no reader of riddles, monsieur,” he said acidly, although eager to know more concerning this Englishman of the same name as himself, ruler of the sovereign duchy of Bercy.
“Shall I bid him enter, Prince?” asked the Minister. The Duke’s face relaxed a little, for the truth was, at this moment of his long life he was deeply concerned with his own name and all who bore it.
“Is he here then?” he asked, nodding assent.
“In the next room,” answered the Minister, turning to a bell and ringing. “I have him here for examination, and was but beginning when I was honoured by your Highness’s presence.” He bowed politely, yet there was, too, a little mockery in the bow, which did not escape the Duke. These were days when princes received but little respect in France.
A subaltern entered, received an order, and disappeared. The Duke withdrew to the embrasure of a window, and immediately the prisoner was gruffly announced.