her face crept a shade of disappointment. If this Bardelys were not
more beautiful than I, then he was not nearly so beautiful a man as
she had imagined. She turned to Saint-Eustache.

"It is indeed so, Chevalier?" she inquired. "Do you note the
resemblance?"

"Vanitas, vanitate," murmured the youth, who had some scraps of
Latin and a taste for airing them. "I can see no likeness - no
trace of one. Monsieur de Lesperon is well enough, I should say.
But Bardelys!" He cast his eyes to the ceiling. "There is but one
Bardelys in France."

"Enfin," I laughed, "you are no doubt well qualified to judge,
Chevalier. I had flattered myself that some likeness did exist, but
probably you have seen the Marquis more frequently than have I, and
probably you know him better. Nevertheless, should he come his way,
I will ask you to look at us side by side and be the judge of the
resemblance."

"Should I happen to be here," he said, with a sudden constraint not
difficult to understand, "I shall be happy to act as arbiter."

"Should you happen to be here?" I echoed questioningly. "But surely,
should you hear that Monsieur de Bardelys is about to arrive, you
will postpone any departure you may be on the point of making, so
that you may renew this great friendship that you tell us you do the
Marquis the honour of entertaining for him?"

The Chevalier eyed me with the air of a man looking down from a