“The post waits, M. Albany,” said I, “and I am going to take it up forthwith. I came here to thank the person to whose kindness I owe the post, and now I am in a quandary as to whom my thanks should be addressed.”
“My dear Monsieur, to whom but to your countrywoman? We all of us owe her everything, and—egad!—are not grateful enough,” and with that he looked for the first time at her with his frown gone.
“Yes, yes,” she cried; “we may put off the compliments till another occasion. What I must say is that it is a grief and a shame to me that this gentleman, who has done so much for me—I speak for myself, your Royal Highness will observe—should be so poorly requited.”
“Requited!” cried he. “How now? I trust Monsieur is not dissatisfied.” His face had grown like paste, his hand, that constantly fumbled at his unshaven chin, was trembling. I felt a mortal pity for this child of kings, discredited and debauched, and yet I felt bound to express myself upon the trap that he had laid for me, if Bonnat's words were true.
“I have said my thanks, M. Albany, very stammeringly for the d'Auvergne office, because I can only guess at my benefactor. My gratitude——”
“Bah!” cried he. “Tis the scurviest of qualities. A benefactor that does aught for gratitude had as lief be a selfish scoundrel. We want none of your gratitude, Monsieur Greig.”
“'Tis just as well, M. Albany,” I cried, “for what there was of it is mortgaged.”
“Comment?” he asked, uneasily.
“I was challenged to a duel this morning with a man Bonnat that calls himself your servant,” I replied, always very careful to take his own word for it and assume I spoke to no prince, but simply M. Albany. “He informed me that you had, Monsieur, some objection to my sharing the same street with you, and had given him his instructions.”
“Bonnat,” cried the Prince, and rubbed his hand across his temples. “I'll be cursed if I have seen the man for a month. Stay!—stay—let me think! Now that I remember, he met me last night after dinner, but—but——”