"Jean!" she called; and presently the little postman came trotting up the long stone steps from the drive. Had he anything? Nothing for Monsieur le Vicomte except a bundle of the week's journals from Paris. So Madame de Morteyn took the papers, and the little postman doffed his cap again and trotted away, blue blouse fluttering and sabots echoing along the terrace pavement.
"I am tired of chess," said the old vicomte; "would you mind reading the Gaulois?"
"The politics, dear?"
"Yes, the weekly summary—if it won't bore you."
"Tais toi! Écoute. This is dated July 3d. Shall I begin?"
"Yes, Helen."
She held the paper nearer and read: "'A Paris journal publishes a despatch through l'agence Havas which declares that a deputation from the Spanish Government has left Madrid for Berlin to offer the crown of Spain to Leopold von Hohenzollern.'"
"What!" cried the vicomte, angrily. Two chessmen tipped over and rolled among the others.
"It's what it says, mon ami; look—see—it is exactly as I read it."
"Are those Spaniards crazy?" muttered the vicomte, tugging at his imperial. "Look, Helen, read what the next day's journal says."