“Bah!” exclaimed one. “You don’t expect us to believe that?”

“Yes, and more, too,” answered Picard, who enjoyed immensely being able to impart some information to his superiors. “Why, how do you suppose he acts to the common people who want to see him? His creditors, for instance?”

“Why, if they are importunate, he beats them, I suppose,” answered de Praille, who often “settled” bills thus.

“Yes, he beats them,” sneered Picard; “he pays them! Yes, gentlemen, he pays his tradespeople.” And the valet surveyed the group, enjoying the surprise he had given them.

“Oh, the poor fellow is lost!” exclaimed one of the party, who at the age of twenty had spent a large fortune and was now living on his wits.

“Completely,” affirmed Picard, “and all owing to the company he keeps. He won’t be guided by me––”

“The Chevalier Maurice de Vaudrey!”

Picard’s further revelations were cut short by the entry of his master who dismissed the valet and presented his apologies to the company.

In any assemblage the young Chevalier of twenty-two might have been remarked for his Greek God features and the occasional smile that made him look, from time to time, a veritable bright Phoebus Apollo.

He was far handsomer, far more attractive than the host, but a young-old cynic about these goings-on. Nephew of the police prefect of Paris, he had been specially invited to forestall––by reason of his presence––any Governmental swooping down on Praille’s wild party. Evidently he was not thinking of morals or of license, but his thoughts were far other.

“The people cry out for bread,” said the Chevalier, looking at the board and thinking of the shrieking beggars.

Marquis de Praille raised his fashionable lorgnette, contemplating a vast chateau-like confection on the table, and sprung his little joke.

“Why don’t they eat cake?” he replied airily, with a cackling laugh.

De Vaudrey smiled fleetingly, then half-serious, half-smiling, raised a hand in polite protest. Two fair ones carried him off eagerly to retail to the distinguished visitor a morsel of gossip.

“The Marquis has made another conquest!” whispered one to him behind her fan, to which the other added: “Yes, he found a marvelously beautiful Norman peasant journeying to Paris in a stage coach, so he had La Fleur take her and fetch her here––a mere rustic, to outvie us all!”

“Yes, ’twill be good sport,” replied the cynic. “These country girls that his excellency abducts are willing victims.”

They were interrupted by a procession of servants bringing in the covered pallet.

The spread was thrown off, a restorative administered to the recumbent figure––Henriette sat up and gazed in blank stupefaction at the crowding revelers.

She staggered to her feet, looking for a friendly face somewhere.

Of a sudden, the mental image of her lost sister shot her as with a violent agony.

“My sister Louise––where is she?” she pleaded. “Quick! Please let me go to her––don’t you understand? She is BLIND!” 30 Sobs almost choked the little voice. “She cannot take a SINGLE STEP without me!”

De Vaudrey looked up to see the tiny creature running hither and yon, asking the laughing gentlemen for help, repulsing Praille’s embraces, fending off the other satyr who would drown her sorrows in fizz. If this were play-acting, it excelled the finest efforts of Adrienne Lecouvreur! De Praille had now grasped her firmly by the waist and shoulders, his sensual breath was on her cheek, a last cry escaped her:

“Among all these noblemen, is there not ONE MAN OF HONOR?”

The despairing outcry pierced the Chevalier’s shallow cynicism, touching the finer feelings that had lain dormant.

He sprang to her side, dashed de Praille’s arms from her exquisite form. Then, facing his bewildered host, he said in calm even tones to the girl:

“Come, Mademoiselle, we will leave this place.”

Suiting the word to the action, he offered his arm to Henriette and started to go. With a fury restrained only by conventional 31 usages, de Praille was across their path and barred the way with his wand.

“This is my house,” he said hoarsely, “and I will not permit this insult!” As he spoke, the chimes sounded midnight. “Do you hear? After twelve o’clock, no one ever leaves Bel-Air!”

For answer de Vaudrey dashed aside the extended wand, escorted the kidnapped girl to the foot of the staircase. De Praille was upon them again. This time he drew his sword. Fascinated, the courtiers and their women companions watched the outcome.

Gently shielding Henriette behind him, de Vaudrey drew. Stroke and counterstroke and parry of rapiers and lightning-like motion glinted in the air. Henriette was the affrighted center of the fashionable group that, according to the custom of that time, awaited the issue of the duel without intervening.

Glory be! her protector was parrying the Marquis’ wild thrusts while he himself bided an opening. It came with a suddenness as dramatic as the duel itself. A lunge of the villain had left his own side exposed. De Vaudrey sidestepped and as he did so 32 plunged his rapier between the ribs of the owner of Bel-Air.

The mortally stricken de Praille sank back against a marble bench. De Vaudrey scarcely glanced at him. Taking Henriette by the hand, he rushed with her up the staircase and out to liberty.

Before the Grand Seigneur’s cronies thought to avenge their master, they had passed the astonished servants, passed the minatory beggars at the gates, and hailing a fiacre were on their way to Paris.