CHAPTER XXII — DROPPING THE PILOT
“The portrait of a lady,” repeated Loo, slowly. “Young and beautiful. That much I remember.”
The old nobleman had never removed his covering hand from the locket. He had never glanced at it himself. He looked slowly round the peering faces, two and three deep round the table. He was the oldest man present—one of the oldest in Paris—one of the few now living who had known Marie Antoinette.
Without uncovering the locket, he handed it to Barebone across the table with a bow worthy of the old régime and his own historic name.
“It is right that you should be the first to see it,” he said. “Since there is no longer any doubt that the lady was your father’s mother.”
Loo took the locket, looked at it with strangely glittering eyes and steady lips. He gave a sort of gasp, which all in the room heard. He was handing it back to the Vicomte de Castel Aunet without a word of comment, when a crashing fall on the bare floor startled every one. A lady had fainted.
“Thank God!” muttered Dormer Colville almost in Barebone’s ear and swayed against him. Barebone turned and looked into a face grey and haggard, and shining with perspiration. Instinctively he grasped him by the arm and supported him. In the confusion of the moment no one noticed Colville; for all were pressing round the prostrate lady. And in a moment Colville was himself again, though the ready smile sat oddly on such white lips.
“For God’s sake be careful,” he said, and turned away, handkerchief in hand.
For the moment the portrait was forgotten until the lady was on her feet again, smiling reassurances and rubbing her elbow.
“It is nothing,” she said, “nothing. My heart—that is all.”