ed with a woman of quality he had almost forgotten
there were such creatures in the world.

"But," he added, laughing, "I shall renew my acquaintance with fine
ladies and gentlemen when I go to Capello this summer to visit
Monsieur and Madame Cheverny."

I could scarcely believe my ears, and I feared to look toward
Francezka.

"You are not the only one who will enjoy that privilege," cried
Monsieur Voltaire, "for Madame Cheverny has invited me, and Monsieur
Cheverny has approved of me."

Francezka rose and made a signal to Madame Villars that it was time to
depart. All rose. Francezka, advancing to the table, took up the pen
and in her clear, bold handwriting, wrote on a slip of paper:

Jacques Haret: Do not you dare to come to Capello.

Francezka Cheverny de Capello del Medina y Kirkpatrick.

She slipped her hands into the sleeves of her domino and stood erect
before Jacques Haret, her eyes blazing at him through the eyeholes in
her mask. I was reminded of that Captain Agoust who, by the intensity
of his gaze, goaded the Prince de Conti into a duel. Francezka's look
at Jacques Haret was equivalent to running a sword through him.
Nothing, however, could change Jacques Haret's native and incurable
levity. He rose, and grinning, made Francezka a low bow.

"I am sorry, Madame, I can not oblige you," he said, "but my
arrangements are all made, even to my wardrobe, and it is now too late
to change, disagreeable as it is to me to disoblige a lady."

The blood of the Kirkpatricks was rising in Francezka's veins; the air
suddenly seemed full of electricity. I saw her involuntarily place her
hand upon the inkstand, a heavy, bronze one, lying on the table, and I
thought the chance was that she would throw it in Jacques Haret's
face. To save her from so wild an act was my only thought. I reached
over, and getting a good grip on Jacques Haret, which I could do
easily, as he was entirely off his guard, I flung him headlong through
the open door into the garden below. Then, not wishing Francezka's
identity to be revealed, I motioned to her and Madame Villars, and we
hurried out of the room.

I forgot until the ladies were in their sedans that the scrap of
writing in Francezka's hand lay on the table and would be seen by
Gaston Cheverny and probably by Monsieur Voltaire. My trouble was all
in vain, but I was glad I had thrown Jacques Haret through the door.

The chairmen went off at a rapid pace, I following. We turne