"A silver case? Pooh! he got that from the baroness."
"A handsome present."
"Ah! she gained it at some lottery in the Palais Royal," said the poor baron, making a desperate attempt to converse freely, while he rung a small hand-bell. "Attendez, Jacques: tell Madame we should be glad to have the honour of her company, because Monsieur Stuart marches to-morrow, and— Ha! ha! what am I saying? You understand—be quick, Jacques," he cried to the valet, who had appeared at his summons. "She is either in her own apartment, or in some of the lower drawing-rooms."
His suspicions were still further aroused. Jacques returned in three minutes, saying that Madame could not be found; that she must have left the hotel, or be promenading in the garden.
"Mon Dieu!" roared the impetuous baron, gnashing his teeth at the astonished valet. "Leave the room, rascal! What are you staring at? I am undone! Hand the case, monsieur; these pistols—they are loaded. They are together—I knew it—in the garden. Sacre! I have long expected something of this kind. An assignation! the base minion! the worthless ribaud! I will have his blood! I will rip him up with my sabre! Tête Dieu! am I to be disgraced in my own house? Ha, ha! ho, ho!" and he laughed like a madman.
Stuart rose, feeling all the confusion and astonishment which a visitor might be supposed to experience at such a juncture. The baron seemed bursting with rage, and rolled about among the pillows of his easy chair, making fruitless efforts to raise himself upon his gouty limbs; and he raved and swore in the mean time like a maniac. At last, in the extremity of his distress, he implored Ronald to see if they were in the garden.
"How very foolish he is making himself appear," thought Ronald, as he descended the lighted stair, laughing at the ludicrous aspect of the baron in his cap, gown, and bandaged legs, and his red weather-beaten visage flaming with the fury and exasperation into which he had lashed himself. Descending a stair in one of the octagon towers, he found himself in the garden. The night was very dark, the air was cold, and the trees, shrubbery, and bowers appeared to be involved in the deepest gloom. The darkness seemed greater, in consequence of his having just left the brilliantly-illuminated library, where old Clappourknuis sat growling like a bear with pain and anger. A curtain was drawn back from one of "the windows of the hotel, and a stream of light falling across a walk of the garden, revealed the figure of a female. It was the baroness, and Stuart advanced to meet her, feeling considerable reluctance to announce the rage, or hint at the suspicions, of her husband. His cogitations were cut short by the lady springing forward, and throwing herself into his arms.
"Maurice, mon cher ami! how long you have kept me waiting," she exclaimed, in a loud whisper. "I have been here on this dreary walk nearly five minutes; and indeed—but one kiss, dear Maurice! and then— Oh! what is this? You have no moustaches. Ah, mon Dieu! what have I done?"
She had, when too late, discovered her mistake. At that moment a window of the library was dashed open, and the strange figure of the unfortunate archaeologist appeared with a pistol in each hand, threatening death and destruction to all. The light which shone into the garden revealed the scene on the walk,—the baroness hanging on the breast of Stuart, whom, as he was without his bonnet and plaid, she had mistaken for De Mesmai in the scarlet uniform of the garde-du-corps. Clappourknuis muttered a tremendous malediction, and fired both pistols into the walk. Ronald escaped death as narrowly as ever he did, even on any occasion in Spain, and the lady was in equal peril. One ball struck from her head the high comb which confined her hair, and the other whistled within an inch of Stuart's nose; after which it shattered a gigantic flower-pot close by. Diane uttered a shriek, and fled like a startled hare from the garden; and, gaining her own apartment, shut herself up, and Stuart never beheld her again.
"Morbleu!" said the incorrigible De Mesmai, whom the destruction of the jar, and the consequent prostration of an immense American aloe, had revealed, "I was just looking for the baroness on the other side of the garden. Sacre! 'tis a most unlucky assignation this, and broken heads must follow! Ha! ha! how now, my most virtuous Scot, who will not dance with grisettes on Sunday, and yet makes an assignation with a married lady in a garden, and at night! Where are all your precepts and fine sayings? Ho! ho! ho! Hark! how the baron storms and blasphemes, like any Cossack or Pagan!"