of the war in Algiers, and
especially of the gallantry of a certain Vicomte de Caylus, in whose
deeds they seemed to take a more than ordinary interest.

"Rode single-handed right through the enemy's camp," said a bronzed,
elderly man, with a short, gray beard.

"And escaped without a scratch," added another, with a tiny red ribbon
at his button-hole.

"He comes of a gallant stock," said a third. "I remember his father at
Austerlitz--literally cut to pieces at the head of his squadron."

"You are speaking of de Caylus," said Dalrymple. "What news of him from
Algiers?"

"This--that having volunteered to carry some important despatches to
head-quarters, he preferred riding by night through Abd-el-Kader's camp,
to taking a _detour_ by the mountains," replied the first speaker.

"A wild piece of boyish daring," said Dalrymple, somewhat drily. "I
presume he did not return by the same road?"

"I should think not. It would have been certain death a second time!"

"And this happened how long since?"

"About a fortnight ago. But we shall soon know all particulars from
himself."

"From himself?"

"Yes, he has obtained leave of absence--is, perhaps, by this time in
Paris."

Dalrymple set down his cup untasted, and turned away.

"Come, Arbuthnot," he said, hastily, "I must introduce you to Madame
Rachel."

We passed through a small antechamber, and into a brilliant _salon_, the
very reverse of antique. Here all was light and color. Here were
hangings of flowered chintz; fantastic divans; lounge-chairs of every
conceivable shape and hue; great Indian jars; richly framed drawings;
stands of exotic plants; Chinese cages, filled with valuable birds from
distant climes; folios of engravings; and, above all, a large cabinet in
marqueterie, crowded with bronzes, Chinese carvings, pastille burners,
fans, medals, Dresden groups, Sevres vases, Venetian glass, Asiatic
idols, and all kinds of precious trifles in tortoise-shall, mother
o'-pearl, malachite, onyx, lapis lazuli, jasper, ivory, and mosaic. In
this room, sitting, standing, turning over engravings, or grouped here
and there on sofas and divans, were some twenty-five or thirty
gentlemen, all busily engaged in conversation. Saluting some of these by
a passing bow, my friend led the way straight through this _salon_ and
into a larger one immediately beyond it.

"This," he said, "is one of the most beautiful rooms in Paris. Look
round and tell me if you recognise, am