The duke gazed at the blue curls of smoke floating as aimlessly as himself. He had not even hoped for a marriage like this with Miss Rowrer, having all the advantages of a royal marriage, without any of its inconveniences. She would be one of the richest and most brilliant sovereigns of Europe.
Never had life appeared sweeter to him than now. He was buoyed up with hope and illusions. There was this marriage for the near future, and meanwhile he could enjoy the little time he still had to pass in Paris. This evening, for instance, he was to go with Caracal and meet Helia behind the scenes of the Nouveau-Cirque. Perhaps he was thinking more than he ought of Helia, but he wished to thank her before his departure for having posed as Morgana.
A lackey broke in upon his reverie, handing the duke two cartes-de-visite on a silver plate.
“Zrnitschka!”
“Bjelopawlitji!”
“The devil!” said the duke. “My two voivodes—my two kill-joys!”
Ah! those two sad-faced “ambassadors of the sorceress”—would they never cease harassing him? The valet spoke:
“The gentlemen wish to have the honor of presenting their homage to monseigneur.”
“Yes; I am acquainted with their homage,” the duke said, below his voice, as he drew out his watch. “Half-past six, and Caracal is waiting for me—and Helia, whom I have to see—”
“What answer shall I give these gentlemen?” asked the valet.