riend and ally--a
worshiper who would obey a hint like a fanatic. Cautiously, at the
marchioness's, and more deeply than at Munich, she made inquiries upon
his pecuniary standing and was rejoiced to learn that he had not
deceived her in that respect. It was left to him to be a favorite in the
court, which, not succeeding in weaning away the scions of the
Legitimist nobility, greeted the foreign nobles cordially and sought to
attach them to its standard in foresight of a European war. One thing
was certain: Gratian had illimitable resources, and the sharp-witted,
who had sharp tongues, did not hesitate to aver that he was one of those
spoilt children of politics who are fed from State treasuries--not such
a shallow-brain as he pretended. The new type of diplomatist was like
him, the Morny's, not the effete Metternich's, gentlemen who settled
affairs of the State in the boudoir not in the cabinet.

Brave, gallant, dashing, craftier than his manner indicated, he was
destined to play no inconsiderable part in the conflict impending; such
an one might emerge from the smoke a lieutenant of an emperor and
holding a large slice of territory which neither of the two contestants
cared yet to rule.

Compared with a sculptor who had produced nothing--an architect whose
buildings had appeared only on paper--this young noble was to be run
away with, if not to be run after.

The marchioness favored their future and less public meetings, and her
gardens were their scene. But while the relations of the treacherous
wife with her cavalier became closer, a singular change took place in
him. Instead of growing bolder, he seemed to hold aloof, and he fixed
each new appointment at a longer interval. He was gloomy and absent,
and she began to feel that her charm was weakening. She reproached him,
and tried to find excuses for him. Everybody knew what he had lost at
the races or over the baccarat-board; and she knew, according to a
rhymed saying, that "lucky at love is unlucky at gambling."

"It is not that," he answered slowly, with an anxious glance around in
the green avenues of trimmed trees. "I do not know why I should speak of
politics to a woman; but you and I are as one: you should know the
worst. I am not my own master, and they who rule me presume to dictate
my course as regards my heart. Brain and sword are theirs, but I shall
feel too ignoble a slave if I sacrifice my love for you to _la haute
politique_."

"Sacrifice your lov