ady with the horses in the courtyard, M. de Canaples left us to seek
the letter which I was to carry to his Eminence. So soon as the door had
closed upon him, Andrea came forward, leading his bride by the hand, and
asked me to wish them happiness.

"With all my heart," I answered; "and if happiness be accorded you in a
measure with the fervency of my wishes then shall you, indeed, be happy.
Each of you I congratulate upon the companion in life you have chosen.
Cherish him, Mademoi--Madame, for he is loyal and true--and such are
rare in this world."

It is possible that I might have said more in this benign and fatherly
strain--for it seemed to me that this new role I had assumed suited
me wondrous well--but a shadow that drew our eyes towards the nearest
window interrupted me. And what we saw there drew a cry from Andrea, a
shudder from Genevieve, and from me a gasp that was half amazement, half
dismay. For, leaning upon the sill, surveying us with a sardonic, evil
grin, we beheld Eugene de Canaples, the man whom I had left with a
sword-thrust through his middle behind the Hotel Vendome two months ago.
Whence was he sprung, and why came he thus to his father's house?

He started as I faced him, for doubtless St. Auban had boasted to him
that he had killed me in a duel. For a moment he remained at the window,
then he disappeared, and we could hear the ring of his spurred heel as
he walked along the balcony towards the door.

And simultaneously came the quick, hurrying steps of the Chevalier de
Canaples, as he crossed the hall, returning with the letter he had gone
to fetch.

Genevieve shuddered again, and looked fearfully from one door to the
other; Andrea drew a sharp breath like a man in pain, whilst I rapped
out an oath to brace my nerves for the scene which we all three foresaw.
Then in silence we waited, some subtle instinct warning us of the
disaster that impended.

The steps on the balcony halted, and a second later those in the hall;
and then, as though the thing had been rehearsed and timed so that the
spectators might derive the utmost effect from it, the doors opened
together, and on the opposing thresholds, with the width of the room
betwixt them, stood father and son confronted.

CHAPTER XVIII. OF HOW I LEFT CANAPLES

Whilst a man might tell a dozen did those two remain motionless, the
one eyeing the other. But their bearing was as widely different as their
figures; Eugene's stalwart frame s