he place and hour where a meeting
between us may be arranged."

"Why, here and now is the best time to arrange it. The garden of the
Temple is retired enough. The moon is now rising--and with two good
lanterns we can see to stick at each other--and we can each find an
acquaintance within this very building."

I was astonished at the youth's temerity--but I saw it was not
bloodthirstiness, but rather a youthful longing for a pickle-herring
tragedy. It was my lady Francezka over again. Having scolded that
young lady with the air of a patriarch, for her venturesomeness,
Gaston Cheverny proceeded to hunt up adventures of his own. I saw that
the notion of fighting by the light of flickering stable lanterns
mightily tickled his fancy. So I said, looking at the great clock in
the tower of the Temple:

"It is now ten o'clock. Shall we make it in an hour?"

"We can easily meet in half an hour."

"Certainly," I answered. "We must each find a friend and a lantern."

"Done," he cried--and turned off.

I was much more puzzled to find a friend and a lantern than I was at
the prospect of crossing swords with young Cheverny. The only human
being I could think of at hand was Jacques Haret--and I loathed the
thought of having him in that capacity. Just then, Jacques Haret came
out of the door and passed through the courtyard. The time was short,
so I stopped him, briefly stated the matter, and he accepted my cause,
laughing uproariously the meanwhile. I had told him, of course, that
Gaston Cheverny and I had quarreled about the greatness of Count
Saxe.

"I know Cheverny well," he cried. "When I was a gentleman, I, too, had
a place in Brabant. Old Peter, you must know, was a retainer of my
family, and served with my father under Marshal Villars, and that is
how, my estate being gone--bought by Regnard Cheverny, brother of
Gaston--and Peter coming to Paris, he took service with Peggy
Kirkpatrick. He had known the Capello family in Brabant."

Jacques Haret commonly told the truth about these things--and so I
knew it to be true. He told me he had finally disposed of the
children for the night, and proposed to get out of the way as
quickly as possible. There was but little money in the theater, he
said,--the cobbler's boy, his best actor, was so frightened at the
adventures of the evening that he would never be worth anything as
an actor again. Francezka would play no more; so he thought, on the
whole, he had better cut the entire