"He deprived me of my child—of my little
Lilé," the lady went on, after a few moments'
silence, during which her bosom heaved, and she
panted: as though want of breath, and not want
of grievances, compelled her to a temporary
surcease in invective.

"No," cried Constant, quietly. "You have
nothing to accuse him of, with respect to the
child. He didn't deprive you of it. I did."

"Monster!" cried the lady. Her looks, however,
did not bear out the acerbity of her speech.

"Benefactor rather. I did not choose to have
the little one continue in the inferno its papa
and mamma were making round it. If Blunt
had been left alone with it, he is so lazy,
insouciant—thoroughly and incurably heartless,
if you will—that he would have left it in the
street, or sent it to the workhouse. Had it
been confided to you, it would have had its brains
dashed out in one of your mad rages; or else it
would have been educated for the pad-saddle and
the circus. One Amazon in a family is quite
enough, countess."

He gave her the name bestowed upon her, half
in envy, half in mockery, by her comrades of the
theatre: whom she offended by her haughtiness,
and terrified by her temper.

"Bon; and the child, where is it?"

"Safe and sound, at school. When she is old
enough, she shall be a nun, and pray for her
wicked papa and mamma."

"It is the child of Francis Blunt, and that is
enough to make me hate it," said the woman.

"A pretty speech for a mother. Nature, you
are a potent influence! To be sure, you have
scarcely ever seen the poor little thing. It was
ample time, however, to deprive you of it. Since
the morrow of her christening you have never
set eyes upon her. I will take care you never
do again, if I can help it. Your tenderness is
of a dangerous nature. When Heaven gave you
that beautiful form, and that brilliant intellect,
how was it that so trifling a matter, such a mere
bagatelle, as a heart, was left out, madame?"

As he spoke, he raised his flaccid lids and
gazed upon her with gloomy intensity. She
tossed her head scornfully, and adjusted the
glittering trinkets on her arms.

"Do you wish to revive the old story?" she
asked. "I thought that in our treaty of amity
and alliance, offensive and defensive, there was a
secret article to the effect that nothing ever was
to be said about the days when we were young
and foolish."

"When I was young, and a fool, a madman,"
he valet retorted. "I am growing old, now.
You are still young, but foolish no more. You
never were. Oh no! You were always
wonderfully wise!"

"As you please," the wild animal, who had
become strangely tranquil, perchance through
sheer lassitude, uttered. "I must beg you, however,
not to bore me with these old histories of
Colin and Jacqueline. They are all very well in
pastel, or in porcelaine de Saxe, but they bore
me in prose. What do you want here, so late at
night?"

"We are both night-birds. My visit in the
end will be a welcome one. I have brought you
a hundred pounds from your husband."

"Donnez!" said the lady, coolly, and held out
her hand.

"Not so fast. I know your capacity for
absorbing money. Certain conditions, and not
very hard ones, are attached to this advance.
We, that is monsieur," he was respectful to the
dandy even in his absence, "must not be annoyed
for six months."

"And you offer a miserable hundred pounds?
C'est peu."

"It is all we can give. Business has not been
prosperous. Times are very hard with us; and
even this hundred pounds can be ill spared."

"I dare say. Times also are very hard with me.
But tell me, Monsieur l'Ambassadeur, has my
precious husband any funds of his own?"

"Not a sou. He ate up his patrimony years ago."

"Have you?"

Constant shrugged his shoulders. "What
can a poor domestique at wages be worth?" he
replied.

"Then it is stolen money. You have stolen
this hundred pounds. Keep it. I will not
have it."

"Hypocrite! Your mouth is watering for it,
and you only wish that it were ten times as
much. No, madame, it is not money stolen; it
is money won."

"By cheating?"

"As you please. I have it here, in five-pound
notes."

"Give it me, then. I don't think my husband
has yet devoted himself to forgery. He has not
application enough. You may tell him from me
that I shall not trouble him again for six months."

"What are you going to do with your milord?"
the valet asked, with a darkling look.

"C'est mon affaire. But if you must know
what I mean to do with milord, then by
Debonnair it is to bleed him for the good of his
constitution. Il a trop de sang, ce moutard-là."

"He is not of age."

''The usurers are kind to him."

"You do not love him?"

"Did I ever love anybody, Jean Baptiste
Constant? It is growing very late. I think you
had better give me the money and let me go to
bed."

He handed her a packet of notes.

"Thank you. It is not much, though."

"Good night, Valérie."

"Hun?" quoth the wild animal, with a look
of simulated surprise, but profound disdain.
"Since when, Monsieur who brushes my
husband's clothes?"

"Good night, Mrs. Blunt, then."

"The Honourable Lady Blunt, you mean!"
but this last she said in mockery, "Be sure you
give my love to my husband."