incing smile, which covers
the thought 'This Turk is a revolting beast.'

Nor are Madame Astier's spoken thoughts any more in harmony with her
internal reflections: 'I only hope Paul will not have forgotten to go
for grandpapa. It will be an effective scene when the old man comes in,
supported on the arm of his great-grandson. Perhaps we may get an order
out of His Highness.' Then, as she looks affectionately at the Duchess,
she thinks: 'She is looking very handsome this evening. Some good news
no doubt about the promised Embassy. Make the best of your time, my
dear; in a month Sammy will be married.'

Madame Astier is not mistaken. The Grand-Duke on arriving announced to
his 'respected friend' the President's promise to appoint D'Athis within
the next few days. The Duchess is filled with a repressed delight, which
shines through as it were, and gives her a marvellous brilliance. To
this height she has raised the man of her choice! And already she is
making plans for removing her own establishment to St. Petersburg, to
a mansion not too far from the Embassy; while the Prince, with his pale
sunk cheeks and rapt look--the look whose penetration Bismarck could
never sustain--checks upon his contemptuous lips the smile at once
mysterious and dogmatic, compounded of diplomacy and learning, and
thinks to himself: 'Now Colette must make up her mind. She could come
out there, we could be married quietly at the Chapelle des Pages, and
all would be done and past recall before the Duchess heard of it.'

And thus many a reflection ludicrously inappropriate to the occasion
passes from guest to guest under the same safe wrapper. Here you have
the pleased beatitude of Leonard Astier, who has this very morning
received the order of Stanislas (second class), as a return for
presenting to His Highness a copy of his speech with the autograph
letter of Catherine pinned to the first page and very ingeniously worked
into the complimentary address. This letter was the great thing at the
meeting, had been mentioned in the papers two days running, and heard of
all over Europe, giving to the name of Astier, to his collection, and to
his work, that astounding and disproportionate echo with which the Press
now multiplies any passing event. Now Baron Huchenard might do his best
to bite, might mumble as he pleased in his insinuating tones, 'I ask
you, my dear colleague, to observe.' But no one would listen. And the
'first collector in France' was