A blue circle under her eyes tells of a vigil of either love or hate. Speculation is vain. The "monde" has its imperial secrets.
Who can solve the equation of womanhood? Colonel Joseph is effusive in his cheery greeting. "My dear madame, I am glad to be in Paris once more." He would charm this sphinx into life and warmth. Foolish Joseph.
"We all are charmed to see you safely returned," murmurs the madame. The padre is studying the art treasures of the incomparable "Salon de Santos."
"I have some messages from a friend of yours," continues Joseph, strangely intent upon the narrow rim of his hat.
"Ah, yes! Pray who remembers me so many years?"
Joseph fires out the answer like a charge of canister from a Napoleon gun: "Philip Hardin."
The lady's lips close. There is a steely look in her eyes. Her hand seeks her heaving bosom. Is there a dagger there?
"Useless, my lady." There are two men here. The padre is intent upon a war picture of D‚taille. His eyes catch a mirror showing the startled woman.
"And—what—did—Mr.—Philip—Hardin say?" the lady gasps.
"He asked me if you remembered Hortense Duval, the Queen of the El—" Natalie reels and staggers, as if shot.