ndeed be feeling his
sixty years.'

'Stafforth, do not natter me in that tone. I adore flattery, but a stupid
compliment is worse than an insult. You know the Duke of Zollern and
myself have long ceased incommoding ourselves for each other's sakes,
with the consequence that we are really friends. He sees me when he
wishes, and I see him when I feel inclined. After twenty years _nous
avons fini nos simagrees_; but after all, listen, I think I hear wheels.'
Her ugly old face flushed through the overlying paint and powder. In
spite of her protest, Madame de Ruth had a remnant of her youth--a poor,
faded flower of sentiment for this old man. A huge lumbering coach drew
up at the door, and therefrom descended a small and shrunken figure, with
a wrinkled, dried-up face. A voluminous peruke fell over the padded
shoulders, rich lace ruffles adorned the sleeves of the brown satin
longcoat, a waistcoat of heavily embroidered brocade reached far down,
nearly to the shrunken knees, below which were a pair of calves thin as
pipe-stems and adorned with brown silken hose; the shoes were of brown
leather with high, red heels and enormous ribbon rosettes and diamond
buckles. One withered hand held a cane with a china top, on which, could
you have examined it, you would have found mythological subjects depicted
with much delicacy of workmanship, but less delicacy of sentiment. A beau
indeed, elegant, lavish, and with that air for the which Monsieur de
Stafforth, adventurer and burgher by birth, would have given many a year
of his successful climbing career to have possessed even a shade,--the
indescribable and inimitable air of the Grand Seigneur.

Madame de Ruth met this gentleman at the door of her abode, her peasant
servant standing behind her, holding a flaring torch to light the entry
of his Grace. She curtseyed deeply, and Monsieur de Zollern, having
successfully hobbled from his coach, returned her salute with so
tremendous a bow, that the long feather of his three-cornered hat swept
the floor.

'I had almost given up the expectation of your visit, Monseigneur,' said
the lady, 'but now you are here, the pleasure is all the greater'; and as
he bowed once more over her hand, she whispered: 'Pleasure you always
gave me, dear friend.'

'Madame chere amie, those times are past, alas! Enfin! we can still laugh
together.'

They passed on through the gloomy corridor, and Madame de Ruth herself
threw open the door of the salon, cryin