"It seems to me that you take a great deal of interest in my private affairs, gentlemen!" said a clear voice behind them.
"Frederic! Frederic, at last!"
"Yes, Frederic, who has been listening to you for some minutes, and who thinks you a little venturesome in your remarks."
He whom these young men greeted as Frederic wore no mask. His costume was what in 1824 was regarded as the height of elegance. His friends looked at him with admiration and envy, audibly regretting that they had appeared in mask and costume.
"Then go and take them off," said Frederic. "I will wait for you here, or, better still, you may stop for me an hour later at the Mille Colonnes."
Frederic was left alone. He was a youth of about twenty, but looked older. Heavy brows shaded deep-set eyes, his shoulders were square, with a slight deformity of the spine. His name was Frederic de Talizac.
Ten years had elapsed since the son of Magdalena scorned and insulted France. We shall soon discover if the man fulfilled the promise of his childhood.
The Vicomte left the rotunda, and putting up his eyeglasses, began to examine the crowd in the garden.
The Palais Royal was at that time the central point of Paris, and served as a rendezvous for everybody. Each café had its special customers. The Bonapartists went to one, foreigners to another—the Mille Colonnes—speculators to the Café de Fois, and so on. The Café de Valois was frequented by military men, the survivors of the great Revolution, and it was also believed that it was a resort of the Republicans. Wonder was frequently expressed that the police had not suppressed this scandal. It was toward this café that the Vicomte now took his way. Hardly had he passed the gallery than he was attracted by a group of young men earnestly conversing together. Frederic watched them a moment, and then went up to them. He touched one of the men on his shoulder, saying: