"A lover who is apparently a Franc-tireur."
Hatzfeldt returned with acrimony:
"One of those marauding free shooters who wear a black cloth uniform, and carry a black standard with a skull above a pair of crossbones. Perhaps his lady-love sat for the picture of the Death's head?"
The Minister returned, with a look of amusement:
"Possibly she did.... Though there have been moments when, under Madame's extraordinary coiffure with the black lace lappets, I have seen peeping at me—imagine what?"
"I cannot imagine.... Hatred, possibly?" said Hatzfeldt.
"Hatred, blazing from two extraordinarily blue eyes...." The Minister went on: "But not only hatred.... Youth, and prettiness. Now, look here, and—for I am perfectly convinced that you believe me bewitched by our landlady—behold my rival's billet-doux!.."
Hatzfeldt could scarcely speak for laughter. The Minister put his hand into the Satyr's mouth and extracted therefrom a little envelope, inscribed in a bold, black, inky scrawl.
"To My Adored Wife."
The Satyr chuckled almost humanly as the Minister held the superscription under his Secretary's eyes, and calmly proceeded to open the envelope.... Hatzfeldt, at first crimson, and writhing with repressed merriment, became graver as the Minister read aloud: