She had kissed me. Scarlet to the eyes, conscious that I was observed by all, not knowing exactly what I did, I did a very unmannerly thing—wiped my cheek with the back of my hand as if to wipe the kiss away.
"I knew you at once," said the old lady, who was none other than the Countess Wagner de Pons, reader to the Empress. "You are the dear General's little boy, of whom I have heard so much—le petit Patrique. And you have bean away, and you have just returned. Mon Dieu! the likeness is most speaking. Now, look you, Patrique, over there on that fauteuil. That is the little Comte de Coigny, whom I have brought this morning to make his bow to M. le Duc de Morny. Come with me, and I will introduce you to him. He is of the haute noblesse, a child of the highest understanding, trè propre."
I glanced at the little Comte de Coigny. He was a tallow-faced, heavy-looking individual, bigger than me, and older. He might have been eleven. He was dressed like a little man, kid gloves and all; and he was looking at me with a dull and sinister expression that spoke neither of a high understanding nor a good heart.
Before I could move towards him, led by the Countess Wagner de Pons, the door of De Morny's room opened, and my father's voice said: "Patrick."
Leaving the old lady, I came.
I found myself in a huge room, with long windows giving a view of the garden and the river. It was, in fact, a salon set out with fauteuils and couches. A bed in one corner, raised on a low platform, struck me by its incongruity. How anyone could choose to sleep in such a vast and gorgeous salon astonished my childish mind. But I had little time to think of these things, for the man standing with his back to the fireplace absorbed all my attention.
He was above the middle height, with a bald, dome-like forehead, a strong face, and wearing a moustache and imperial. He was dressed like any other gentleman, but there was that about him—a self-contained vigour, a calmness of manner, and a grace—that stamped him at once on the memory as a person never to be forgotten.
"This is my little son," said my father. I saluted, and the great man bowed.
Then I was questioned about the affair at Lichtenberg, for it seems the matter had made more than a stir at the Prussian Court. Questions were being asked; and there was that eruption of evil talk, that dicrotic rebound of excitement, which, after every social tragedy, is sure to follow the first wave.