turning the Languedoc courtship - from which he was newly returned
with the shame of defeat - into a subject for heartless mockery and
jest. Surprise was in the air for we had heard that Chatellerault
was crushed by his ill-fortune in the lists of Cupid, and we had not
looked to see him joining so soon a board at which - or so at least
I boasted - mirth presided.

And so for a little space the Count stood pausing on my threshold,
whilst we craned our necks to contemplate him as though he had been
an object for inquisitive inspection. Then a smothered laugh from
the brainless La Fosse seemed to break the spell. I frowned. It
was a climax of discourtesy whose impression I must at all costs
efface.

I leapt to my feet, with a suddenness that sent my chair gliding a
full half-yard along the glimmering parquet of the floor, and in two
strides I had reached the Count and put forth my hand to bid him
welcome. He took it with a leisureliness that argued sorrow. He
advanced into the full blaze of the candlelight, and fetched a dismal
sigh from the depths of his portly bulk.

"You are surprised to see me, Monsieur le Marquis," said he, and
his tone seemed to convey an apology for his coming - for his very
existence almost.

Now Nature had made my Lord of Chatellerault as proud and arrogant
as Lucifer - some resemblance to which illustrious personage his
downtrodden retainers were said to detect in the lineaments of his
swarthy face. Environment had added to that store of insolence
wherewith Nature had equipped him, and the King's favour - in which