ou of!" said Florian then.

"But, hey, young man, who are you that would seem to know my daughter so
well?" demanded the lady in middle life, and rose majestically from her
chess-game.

Florian stared, as he well might.

"Your daughter, madame! But certainly you are not Dame Melicent."

At this the old, old woman raised her nodding head.

"Dame Melicent? And was it I you were seeking, sir?"

Now Florian looked from one to the other of these incomprehensible
strangers, bewildered; and his eyes came back to his lovely wife, and
his lips smiled irresolutely.

"Is this some jest to punish me, my dear?" But then a new and graver
trouble kindled in his face, and his eyes narrowed, for there was
something odd about his wife also.

"I have been drinking in queer company," he said. "It must be that my
head is not yet clear. Now certainly it seems to me that you are
Adelaide de la Foret, and certainly it seems to me that you are not
Adelaide."

The girl replied:

"Why, no, messire; I am Sylvie de Nointel."

"Come, come," said the middle-aged lady, briskly, "let us have an end of
this play-acting! There has been no Adelaide de la Foret in these parts
for some twenty-five years, as nobody knows better than I. Young fellow,
let us have a sniff at you. No, you are not tipsy, after all. Well, I am
glad of that. So let us get to the bottom of this business. What do they
call you when you are at home?"

"Florian de Puysange," he answered speaking meekly enough. This capable
large person was to the young man rather intimidating.

"La!" said she. She looked at him very hard. She nodded gravely two or
three times, so that her double chin opened and shut.

"Yes, and you favor him. How old are you?" He told her twenty-four. She
said inconsequently: "So I was a fool, after all. Well, young man, you
will never be as good-looking as your father, but I trust you have an
honester nature. However, bygones are bygones. Is the old rascal still
living, and was it he that had the impudence to send you to me?"

"My father, madame, was slain at the Battle of Marchfeld--"

"Some fifty years ago! And you are twenty-four. Young man, your
parentage had unusual features, or else we are at cross-purposes. Let
us start at the beginning of this. You tell us you are called Florian de
Puysange and that you have been drinking in queer company. Now let us
have the whole story."

Florian told of last night's happenings, with no more omissions th