“Oh, the woman. I hope I may never see her again.”
“You will. That fellow Alphonse will find her.”
“I hope not. But what a mess! cherchez la femme!”
“That we must do,” laughed Merton. “The mosquitoes illustrate the proverb: only the females bite. Good, that, isn’t it? But what next? I interrupted you. You are out of it, but where do I come in? What about Porthos and that little red weasel Aramis?”
“And D’Artagnan?” I laughed.
“If you like, Greville. You are complimentary. Was that all?”
“No. The count said, ‘I will at once write to Captain Merton and apologize, but I fancy my friends have already done so.’ I was about to take leave of the count when in walked the baron, behind the biggest mustache in Paris, a ponderous person. ‘Shade of Dumas!’ I muttered; ‘Porthos! Porthos!’ Behind him was a much-made-up little fellow, the colonel—your Aramis.”
“Oh, drop him. He is what the arithmeticians call a negligible quantity. What next?”
“The count said, ‘Allow me to present M. Greville of the American Legation—the Baron la Garde, my cousin, and the Colonel St. Pierre.’ We bowed, and the count said, ‘M. Greville is somewhat concerned in the affair in which you have been so kind as to act for me.’
“The two gentlemen looked a little bewildered, but bowed again and sat down, while the count added: ‘You may speak freely. I suppose M. Merton explained that he was not the person.’”