"I wonder—" began Coigny, thoughtfully, when again, for the twentieth time, the door opened, and some one entered whose appearance paralyzed the conversation.
"Well, gentlemen, I am thankful only that I am not a débutante at the Opéra. Such a reception would ruin me. Am I forgotten?"
"Forgotten!" It was a chorus. Then one voice continued: "When one sees a ghost, Claude, one fears to address it hastily. It might take offence."
"'I think it is a weakness of mine eyes that shapes—'"
"'This monstrous apparition'? Thanks, truly!" observed de Mailly.
Richelieu then strode forward and seized his hand. "He's in the flesh, messieurs. I am delighted, I am charmed, I am somewhat overcome, dear Claude. I should have pictured you at this moment flirting in Spain, storming a seraglio at Constantinople, toasting some estimable fräulein in beer, drowning yourself in tea and accent in London, or—fighting savages in the West. Anything but this! Your exile is over, then?"
Claude smiled, but, before he spoke, Maurepas had come forward:
"My faith, gentlemen, you seem to be but slightly informed of the last news. Monsieur has been in Paris for a week with Madame the Countess his wife, and—"
"His wife! Diable!"
"Come, come, then, I was not far wrong. Is she Spanish, Turkish, German, English, or—by some impossible chance—French? Speak!"