I was dreaming of the Countess Feliciani. She had changed all of a sudden, by the alchemy of dreamland, into little Carl. We were running together down the forest path in the woods of Lichtenberg, and the Stone Man was pursuing us, when a violent pull on my right leg awakened me, and Joubert and a burst of sunshine replaced dreamland and its shadows.

It was one of Joubert's pleasant ways of awakening a child from his sleep, to catch him by the foot and nearly haul him out of bed.

Oh, the agony of having to get up, straight, without any preliminary stretching and yawning; to get up with that dead, blank tiredness of childhood hanging on one like a cloak—and get into a cold bath!

It was martial law with a vengeance. But there was no use in grumbling.

"Come, lazybones," said Joubert; "rouse yourself. Gone eight; and you are to go with the General at ten."

"Where to?" said I, rubbing the sleep out of my eyes.

"Ma foi! where to? Why, on a visit to M. le Duc de Morny."

"Oui."

I was in the bath now, and soapsuds checked my questions. Joubert used to wash me just as if I were a dog on the mornings that soapsuds were the order of the day—that is to say, only twice a week, every Wednesday and Saturday; for this old soldier was as full of fixed opinions as any nurse, and he believed that too much soap took the oil out of the skin and made children weak. You may be sure I did not combat his theory.

"Your best coat," said Joubert, as he took the article from the drawer, "and your best manners, if you please; for M. le Duc de Morny is the first gentleman in Paris, now that the Emperor is away. Now you are dressed, and—remember!"

You may be sure I was in a flutter, for the Duc de Morny was a personage I had never seen, and he loomed large even on my small horizon. From my childhood's recollections I believe that the Duc had far more dominance and power than poor old Louis Napoleon, whose craft lay chiefly in his face.

At a quarter to ten my father, in full general's uniform, very gorgeous, wearing his medals and the cross, appeared in the hall, where I was waiting for him. A closed carriage was at the door. We got in and started.

The HÔtel de Morny was situated on the Quai d'Orsay. It was a huge building, with gardens running right down to the river. It was next to the Spanish Embassy, and had two entrances, one by the river, the other opening from the Rue de Lille.

We passed down the Rue de Lille, and then turned in at the gates, and by a short roadway to the great courtyard.

Other carriages were there—quite a number of them. Our carriage drew up at the steps, and we alighted.

As we left the chilly morning, and passed through the swing-glass doors held open for us by a powdered footman, it was like entering a greenhouse, so warm was the air, and so perfumed with flowers.

The Duc was far too astute a man to merge his personality in Government apartments. The HÔtel de Morny was his palace. There he held his court, receiving people in his bed-chamber after the fashion of a king.

The salon was filled with people—all men, with one exception.

We were expected, it seems; for the usher led us straight through the throng towards the tall double oak door that gave entrance to the Duc's room.

"Stay here, Patrick," said my father, and he indicated a chair close to the door. Then he vanished into the sanctum of the Minister, and I was left alone to contemplate the people around me.

They were arranged in little groups, talking together; fat men and thin men, several priests, stout gentlemen with the red rosette of the Legion of Honour in their buttonholes, sun-dried gentlemen from Provence with fiery eyes and enormous moustaches, all talking, most of them gesticulating, and each awaiting his audience with the Minister.

Suddenly, through this crowd, which divided before her as the Red Sea divided before Pharaoh, straight towards me came the only female occupant of the room, an old lady at least seventy years of age, yet dressed like a girl of sixteen. She was so evidently making for me that I rose to meet her; and, before I could resent the outrage, a lace frill tickled my chin, a perfume of stephanotis half smothered me, and a pair of thin lips smacked against my cheek.

She had kissed me. Scarlet to the eyes, conscious that I was observed by all, not knowing exactly what I did, I did a very unmannerly thing—wiped my cheek with the back of my hand as if to wipe the kiss away.

"I knew you at once," said the old lady, who was none other than the Countess Wagner de Pons, reader to the Empress. "You are the dear General's little boy, of whom I have heard so much—le petit Patrique. And you have bean away, and you have just returned. Mon Dieu! the likeness is most speaking. Now, look you, Patrique, over there on that fauteuil. That is the little Comte de Coigny, whom I have brought this morning to make his bow to M. le Duc de Morny. Come with me, and I will introduce you to him. He is of the haute noblesse, a child of the highest understanding, trÈ propre."

I glanced at the little Comte de Coigny. He was a tallow-faced, heavy-looking individual, bigger than me, and older. He might have been eleven. He was dressed like a little man, kid gloves and all; and he was looking at me with a dull and sinister expression that spoke neither of a high understanding nor a good heart.

Before I could move towards him, led by the Countess Wagner de Pons, the door of De Morny's room opened, and my father's voice said: "Patrick."

Leaving the old lady, I came.

I found myself in a huge room, with long windows giving a view of the garden and the river. It was, in fact, a salon set out with fauteuils and couches. A bed in one corner, raised on a low platform, struck me by its incongruity. How anyone could choose to sleep in such a vast and gorgeous salon astonished my childish mind. But I had little time to think of these things, for the man standing with his back to the fireplace absorbed all my attention.

He was above the middle height, with a bald, dome-like forehead, a strong face, and wearing a moustache and imperial. He was dressed like any other gentleman, but there was that about him—a self-contained vigour, a calmness of manner, and a grace—that stamped him at once on the memory as a person never to be forgotten.

"This is my little son," said my father. I saluted, and the great man bowed.

Then I was questioned about the affair at Lichtenberg, for it seems the matter had made more than a stir at the Prussian Court. Questions were being asked; and there was that eruption of evil talk, that dicrotic rebound of excitement, which, after every social tragedy, is sure to follow the first wave.

"And now," said my father, when I had finished my evidence, "run off and play till I am ready for you."

Play! With whom did he expect me to play? With the fat Deputies, the opulent bankers, the sun-dried gentlemen from the south who thronged the ante-chamber?

The Countess Wagner de Pons answered the question. This old lady, whose eccentricity and love of gossip had made her wait with her charge in the ante-room, instead of having her name announced to the Duchess de Morny, as any other lady of rank would have done, was deep in conversation with a tall, dignified gentleman, deep in scandal, no doubt; for, when she saw me she got rid of me at once by introducing me to the little Comte de Coigny. "And now," said she, as if echoing my father's words, "run off and play, both of you, in the garden."

A footman in the blue-and-gold livery of the Duke led us down an iron staircase to the gravelled walk upon which the lower windows opened, and left us there.

Play! There was less play in the stiff and starched little Comte de Coigny, that child of the haute noblesse, trÈs propre, than in the elephant of the Jardin des Plantes, or any of the fat Deputies in M. de Morny's ante-room. But there was much more dignity, of a heavy sort.

We took the path towards the river.

"And you," said he, breaking the silence as we walked along. "Where have you come from?"

"Germany," I replied.

"I thought so," said he.

He was a schoolboy of the Bourdaloue College, but all the planing and polishing of the Jesuit fathers had not improved his manners, it seems. The tone of his reply was an insult in itself, and I took it as such, and held my tongue and waited.

We walked right down to the balustrade overlooking the Seine. De Coigny mounted, sat on the balustrade, whistled, and as he sat kicking his heels he cast his eyes up and down me from crown to toe.

I stood before him with the seeming humility of the younger child; but my blood was boiling, and my knuckles itched at the sight of his flabby, pasty face.

Some trees sheltered us from the house, and my gentleman from the Bourdaloue College took a box of Spanish cigaritos from his pocket and a matchbox adorned with the picture of a ballet-girl.

He put a cigarito between his thick lips, lit it, blew a puff of smoke, and held out the box to me to have one. Fired with the manliness of the affair I put out my hand, and received, instead of a cigarito, a rap on the knuckles with his cane.

"That's to teach you not to smoke," said Mentor. "How old are you?"

"Nine," replied I. The blow hurt; but I put my hand in my pockets, and I think neither my voice nor my face betrayed my feelings.

"Nine. And what part of Germany do you come from?"

"I was last staying at the Castle of Lichtenberg."

"Aha!" said the gentleman on the balustrade. "And who, may I ask, did we entertain at our Castle of Lichtenberg?"

"King William of Prussia," I replied out of my childish vanity, "the Count Feliciani, the great banker and——"

"Mr. What's-your-name," said my tormentor, "you are a liar. The Count Feliciani, the great banker as you call him, is in prison——"

"How! What?" I cried.

"Oh," said he, with the air of an old Boulevardier, "it is all over Paris. Caught embezzling State funds; arrested at the railway station. A nice acquaintance, truly, to boast of!"

"Oh, Eloise!" I cried, my whole heart going out to the unhappy family; for, though I did not know what embezzling funds meant, prison was plain enough to my understanding.

"Oh, Eloise!" mimicked the other, throwing his cigarette-end away, slipping down from the balustrade, and adjusting his waistcoat preparatory to returning to the house. "Oh, Eloise! Come on, cochon. I have an appointment with M. le Duc de Morny."

"Allons!" And again he hit me with the cane, this time over the right shoulder.

I struck him first in the wind, a foul blow, which I have never yet regretted; and, as he doubled up, I struck him again, by good fortune, just at the root of the nose.

The effect was magical, and I stood in consternation looking at my handiwork, for instantly his two eyes became black and his nose streamed gore.

He lay for a moment where he had fallen; then he scrambled on all fours, got on his feet, and running, streaming blood, and bellowing at the same time, without his dandy cane, without his cigarette-box, which he had left on the balustrade, he made for the house, this enfant trÈs propre, and of the highest intelligence; a nice figure, indeed, for presentation to the Duc de Morny!

It was a veritable dÉbÂcle. He knew how to run, that child of the haute noblesse; and, when I arrived in the ante-room, he was already roaring his tale out into the Countess Wagner de Pons' brocaded skirts, for he was clinging to her like a child of five, whilst the fat Deputies, the Jew bankers, and other illuminati stood round in a circle, excited as schoolboys. A nice scene, truly, to take place in a Minister of State's salon.

"He struck me in the stomach, he struck me on the head, he kicked me!" roared the little Comte de Coigny. "Keep him away! Keep him away! Here he is! Here he is!"

The Countess de Pons screamed. A row of long-drawn faces turned on me, and the bankers and Deputies, the priests, and the Southern delegates made a hedge to protect the stricken one, and cooshed at me as if I were a cat. Cries of "Ah! polisson! Mauvais enfant! Regardez! Regardez!" filled the room, till the hubbub suddenly ceased at a stern voice that said "Patrick!"

It was my father, whose interview with De Morny was over. He stood at the open door, and I saw the Duke, who had peeped out, and whose quick intelligence had taken in the whole affair in a flash, vanishing with a smile on his face.