I was about to comment on this queer story when Merton said:

“Pardon me, I must first tell you all; then you will kindly say what you think of this amazing performance.

“The little colonel, who had the leanness and redness of a boiled shrimp, now took up the talk, and this other idiot said: ‘My friend the baron will, no doubt, postpone the pleasure of meeting monsieur; and now, as monsieur is no longer indisposed to satisfy our principal, and, as we understand it, declines to explain or apologize,—in fact, admits, by his inclination to meet our friend, what he seemed to deny,—may we have the honor to know when monsieur’s seconds will wait on us? Here is my card.’

“The little man was posing beautifully. I laid his card on the table and said, ‘Be so good, gentlemen, as to understand that I have not retracted my statement, but that if the count insists, as you do, that I lie,—that, at least, is decent cause for a quarrel,—he can have it.’

“The little man replied that the count could not do otherwise.

“‘Very good,’ said I.—No, don’t interrupt this charming story, Mr. Greville; let me go on. There is more of it and better.

“My colonel then said, ‘We shall expect to hear from you—and, by the way, I understand from monsieur’s card that he is an American.’

“I said, ‘Yes; captain Second Infantry.’

“‘Ah, a soldier—really! In the army of the Confederation, I presume. We shall be enchanted to meet monsieur’s friends.’

“‘What!’ I said; ‘does monsieur the colonel wish to insult me? I am of the North.’

“‘A thousand pardons!’

“‘No matter. You will hear from me shortly, or as soon as I am able to find gentlemen who will be my seconds.’ This seemed to suit them until I remarked that, to save time, being the challenged party, I might as well say that my friends would insist on the rifle at thirty paces.

“‘But monsieur, that is unusual, barbarous!’ said the little man.

“‘Indeed!’ said I. ‘Then suppose we say revolvers at twelve paces or less. I have no prejudices.’ It seems that the baron had, for he said my new proposition was also unheard of, uncivilized.

“Upon this I stood up and said: ‘Gentlemen, you have insisted on manufacturing for me a quarrel with a man I never saw, and have suggested—indeed, said—that I, a soldier, am afraid and have lied to you. I accepted the situation thus forced on me, and in place of the wretched little knitting-needles with which you fight child duels in France, I propose to take it seriously.’

“I saw the little man—the colonel—was beginning to fidget. As I stopped he said, ‘Pardon me; I have not the honor fully to comprehend.’

“‘Indeed?’ said I. ‘So far I have hesitated to ascribe to gentlemen, to a soldier, any motive for your difficulty in accepting weapons which involve peril, and I thought that I had at last done so. I do not see how I can make myself more clear.’

“‘Sir,’ said my little man, ‘do I understand—’

“I was at the end of the sweetest temper west of the Mississippi. I broke into English and said: ‘You may understand what you damn please.’

“You see, Mr. Greville, it was getting to be fatiguing—these two improbable Frenchmen. I suppose the small man took my English as some recondite insult, for he drew himself up, clicked his heels together, and said, ‘I shall have the honor to send to monsieur those who will ask him, for me,—for me, personally,—to translate his words, and, I trust, to withdraw the offensive statement which, no doubt, they are meant to convey.’

“I replied that I had no more to say, except that I should instruct my friends to abide by the weapons I had mentioned. On this he lost his temper and exclaimed that it was murder. I said that was my desire; that they were hard to please; and that bowie-knives exhausted the list of weapons I should accept.

“The colonel said further that, as I seemed to be ignorant of the customs of civilized countries, it appeared proper to let me know that the seconds were left to settle these preliminaries, and he supposed that I was making a jest of a grave situation.

“When I replied that he was as lacking in courtesy as the baron, the little man became polite and regretted that the prior claim of of his two friends would, he feared, deprive him of the pleasure of exacting that satisfaction which he still hoped circumstances would eventually afford him. He was queerly precise and too absurd for belief.

“I replied lightly that I should be sorry if any accident were to deprive him of the happiness of meeting me, but that I had the pleasant hope of being at his service after I had shot the count and the baron. I began to enjoy this unique situation.

“The colonel said I was most amiable—but really, my dear Mr. Greville, it is past my power to do justice to this scene. They were like the Count Considines and the Irish gentlemen in Lever’s novels.”

“And was that all?” I asked.

“No, not quite. After the colonel ceased to criticize my views of the duel, he again informed me that his own friends would call upon me to withdraw my injurious language. Then these two peacemakers departed. Now what do you think of my comedy?”

I had listened in amazement to this arrangement—three duels as the sequel of my adventure! As Merton ended, he burst into a roar of laughter.

“Now,” he said, “what will they do?—rifle, revolver, or bowie? By George, I am like D’Artagnan—my second day in Paris and three duels on my hands! Isn’t it jolly?”

That was by no means my opinion. “Mr. Merton,” I said, “I came here about this very matter.”

“Indeed! How can that be? Pray go on—and did any man ever hear of such a mix-up? Where do you come in?”

“I will tell you. Last night in the dark, by mishap, I gave this infernal count your card instead of my own.”

“The deuce you did! Great Scott, what fun!”

“Yes, I did.” I went on to relate my encounter with the lady, and the manner in which Count le Moyne had behaved.

“What an adventure! I am so sorry I was not in your place. What a fine mystery! But what will you do? Was she his wife? I have had many adventures, but nothing to compare with this. I envy you. And you were sure she was not his wife?”

“No, she was not his wife; and as to what I shall do, it is simple. I shall go to the count and explain the card and my mistake. I meant to anticipate the visit to you of Count le Moyne’s seconds. I am sorry to have been late.”

“Sorry! Not I. It is immense!”

“The count will call me out. There will be the usual farce of a sword duel. I am in fair practice. This will relieve you so far as concerns the count, and nobody else will fight you with the weapons you offer.”

“Won’t they, indeed? I have been insulted. Do you suppose I can sit quiet under it? No, Mr. Greville. You, I hope, may make yourself unpleasant to this count, but I shall settle with him and the others, too. Did I happen to mention that I told them I did not fight with knitting-needles?”

“You did.”

“They seemed annoyed.”

“Probably,” said I. Although the whole affair appeared to me comical, it had, too, its possible tragedy.

“Well,” I continued, “I shall find the count, and set right the matter of the cards. After that we may better see our way. These matters are never hurried over here. Dine with me to-night at my rooms at seven-thirty; and meanwhile, as for the baron—”

“Oh, the baron—you should see him. I came near to calling him Porthos to his face. I wish I had.”

“And the small man, the colonel—”

“Oh, yes—shade of Dumas! He may pass for Aramis.”

I laughed. “By the way,” I added, “he is one of the best blades in France.”

“Is he? However he comes in third. But can he shoot? If I accept the sword,—and it may come to that,—I am pretty sure to be left with something to remember. If we use rifles, I assure you they will remember me still longer or not at all.” There was savage menace in his blue eyes as he spoke. “But is it not ridiculous?”

I said it was.

“And now about this count who is interested in the anonymous lady. I suppose he may pass for Athos. That makes it complete. Have some rye. Smuggled it. Said it was medicine. The customs fellow tried it neat, and said I had poisoned him.”

I declined the wine of my country, and answered him that Athos, as I had learned, was a man of high character who had lately joined the Foreign Office, a keen imperialist, happily married and rich.

“Then certainly it cannot be the wife.”

“No, I think I said so; I am thankful to be able to say that it is not. But what part the woman has in this muddle is past my comprehension.”

“Stop a little,” said my D’Artagnan. “You are having a good deal of trouble to keep this short-legged Emperor from getting John Bull and the rest to bully us into peace.”

“Yes, there has been trouble brewing all summer.” I could not imagine what the man was after.

“Well, the woman seemed pleased when she learned that you were an American. You said so, and also that the count charged you with being in that affair. He slipped up a bit there. He seemed to believe you to be engaged in something of which he did not want to talk freely.”

“Yes, that is true.”

The blue eyes held mine for a moment, and then he inquired, “Was she—” and he paused.

“My dear captain, she is an American and a lady.”

“I ask her pardon. A lady? You are sure she is a lady?”

“Yes.”

“Then it is a matter of—let me think—not jealousy? Hardly. We may leave that out.”

“Certainly.”

“Don’t you catch on, Mr. Greville?”

“No, I must say I do not.”

“Well, consider it coolly. Exclude love, jealousy, any gross fraud, and what is left? What can be left?”

“I do not know.”

“How about politics,” he smiled. “How does that strike you?”

The moment he let fall this key-word, “Politics,” I began to suspect that he was right. The woman had exhibited relief when I had said I was an American. We lived in a maze of spies of nearly every class of life, rarely using the post-office, trusting no one. With our own secret agents I had little to do. The first secretary or the minister saw them, and we were not badly served either in England or France; but all this did not do more than enable me to see my D’Artagnan’s notion as possibly a reasonable guess.

After a moment’s thought I said: “You may be right; but even if you are, the matter remains a problem which we are very unlikely ever to solve. But how can a handsome young American woman be so deeply concerned in some political affair as to account for this amazing conduct of a secretary not yet a week old in the work of the imperial Foreign Office.”

Merton smiled. “We exhaust personal motives—what else is left? Politics! She may know something which it seems to be desirable she should not know. We must find her.”

The more I considered his theory, the more I inclined to doubt it. At all events as things stood it was none of our business—and after a moment’s reflection I said:

“We have quite enough on our hands without the woman. I shall see the count to-day, and then we may be in a better position to know what further should be done.”

“Done?” laughed the captain. “I shall give all three fools what is called satisfaction. I don’t take much stock in them. I hate Aramis. It’s the woman interests me the most.”

“The woman? I assure you, I am out of that.”

“Oh, no, no! We must find her. She is in trouble.”

I laughed. “Can we find her?”

“We must. I like her looks.”

“But you never saw her.”

“No. But the most beautiful woman is always the one I never saw.”

He was delightful, my D’Artagnan, with his amused acceptance of three duels, and now his interest in an unknown woman. But I held fast to my opinion, and after some further talk I went away to make my belated explanation to Count le Moyne.

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