“You—you have a visitor!” stammered Auguste, with a tact that savored of practice. Yet there was a sorry difference between this and the haughty young patrician who had sold me the miniature.
“Who brings me good news,” said Monsieur de St. Gré, in English. “Mr. Ritchie, allow me to introduce my son, Auguste.”
I felt Monsieur de St. Gré's eyes on me as I bowed, and I began to think I was in near as great a predicament as Auguste. Monsieur de St. Gré was managing the matter with infinite wisdom.
“Sit down, my son,” he said; “you have no doubt been staying with your uncle.” Auguste sat down, still staring. “Does your aunt's health mend?”
“She is better to-night, father,” said the son, in English which might have been improved.
“I am glad of it,” said Monsieur de St. Gré, taking a chair. “André, fill the glasses.”
The silent, linen-clad mulatto poured out the Madeira, shot a look at Auguste, and retired softly.
“There has been a heavy rain, Monsieur,” said Monsieur de St. Gré to me, “but I think the air is not yet cleared. I was about to say, Mr. Ritchie, when my son called to pay his respects, that the miniature of which we were speaking is one of the most remarkable paintings I have ever seen.” Auguste's thin fingers were clutching the chair. “I have never beheld Mademoiselle Hélène de St. Gré, for my cousin, the Marquis, was not married when I left France. He was a captain in a regiment of his Majesty's Mousquetaires, since abolished. But I am sure that the likeness of Mademoiselle must be a true one, for it has the stamp of a remarkable personality, though Hélène can be only eighteen. Women, with us, mature quickly, Monsieur. And this portrait tallies with what I have heard of her character. You no doubt observed the face, Monsieur,—that of a true aristocrat. But I was speaking of her character. When she was twelve, she said something to a cardinal for which her mother made her keep her room a whole day. For Mademoiselle would not retract, and, pardieu, I believe his Eminence was wrong. The Marquise is afraid of her. And when first Hélène was presented formally she made such a witty retort to the Queen's sally that her Majesty insisted upon her coming to court. On every New Year's day I have always sent a present of coffee and périque to my cousin the Marquis, and it is Mademoiselle who writes to thank us. Parole d'honneur, her letters make me see again the people amongst whom she moves,—the dukes and duchesses, the cardinals, bishops, and generals. She draws them to the life, Monsieur, with a touch that makes them all ridiculous. His Majesty does not escape. God forgive him, he is indeed an amiable, weak person for calling a States General. And the Queen, a frivolous lady, but true to those whom she loves, and beginning now to realize the perils of the situation.” He paused. “Is it any wonder that Auguste has fallen in love with his cousin, Monsieur? That he loses his head, forgets that he is a gentleman, and steals her portrait from his sister!”
Had I not been so occupied with my own fate in the outcome of this inquisition, I should have been sorry for Auguste. And yet this feeling could not have lasted, for the young gentleman sprang to his feet, cast a glance at me which was not without malignance, and faced his father, his lips twitching with anger and fear. Monsieur de St. Gré sat undisturbed.
“He is so much in love with the portrait, Monsieur, that he loses it.”