As I completed my preparations the light failed me; the last level
streak of sunlight disappeared, and a fading twilight only remained. I
sighed in unison with the pensive hour, and threw open the window,
intending to look out for a moment before going downstairs. I perceived
instantly that the window underneath mine was also open, for I heard two
voices in conversation, although I could not distinguish what they were
saying. The male voice was peculiar; it was, as I told you, reedy and nasal. I
knew it, of course, instantly. The answering voice spoke in those sweet
tones which I recognized only too easily. The dialogue was only for a
minute; the repulsive male voice laughed, I fancied, with a kind of
devilish satire, and retired from the window, so that I almost ceased to
hear it. The other voice remained nearer the window, but not so near as at first. It was not an altercation; there was evidently nothing the least
exciting in the colloquy. What would I not have given that it had been a
quarrel--a violent one--and I the redresser of wrongs, and the defender
of insulted beauty! Alas! so far as I could pronounce upon the character
of the tones I heard, they might be as tranquil a pair as any in
existence. In a moment more the lady began to sing an odd little
chanson. I need not remind you how much farther the voice is heard
singing than speaking. I could distinguish the words. The voice was of
that exquisitely sweet kind which is called, I believe, a
semi-contralto; it had something pathetic, and something, I fancied, a
little mocking in its tones. I venture a clumsy, but adequate
translation of the words:

  "Death and Love, together mated,
    Watch and wait in ambuscade;
  At early morn, or else belated,
    They meet and mark the man or maid. Burning sigh, or breath that freezes,
    Numbs or maddens man or maid;
  Death or Love the victim seizes,
    Breathing from their ambuscade." "Enough, Madame!" said the old voice, with sudden severity. "We do not
desire, I believe, to amuse the grooms and hostlers in the yard with our
music." The lady's voice laughed gaily. "You desire to quarrel, Madame!" And the old man, I presume, shut down
the window. Down it went, at all events, with a rattle that might easily
have broken the glass. Of all thin partitions, glass is the most effectual excluder of sound. I
heard no more, not even the subdued hum of the colloquy. What a charming voice this Countess had! How it melted, swelled, and
trembled! How it moved, and even agitated me! What a pity that a hoarse
old jackdaw should have power to crow down such a Philomel! "Alas! what
a life it is!" I moralized, wisely. "That beautiful Countess, with the
patience of an angel and the beauty of a Venus and the accomplishments
of all the Muses, a slave! She knows perfectly who occupies the
apartments over hers; she heard me raise my window. One may conjecture
pretty well for whom that music was intended--aye, old gentleman, and
for whom you suspected it to be intended." In a very agreeable flutter I left my room and, descending the stairs,
passed the Count's door very much at my leisure. There was just a chance
that the beautiful songstress might emerge. I dropped my stick on the
lobby, near their door, and you may be sure it took me some little time
to pick it up! Fortune, nevertheless, did not favor me. I could not stay
on the lobby all night picking up my stick, so I went down to the hall. I consulted the clock, and found that there remained but a quarter of an
hour to the moment of supper. Everyone was roughing it now, every inn in confusion; people might do at
such a juncture what they never did before. Was it just possible that,
for once, the Count and Countess would take their chairs at the
table-d'hôte? Chapter IV

MONSIEUR DROQVILLE


Full of this exciting hope I sauntered out upon the steps of the Belle
Étoile. It was now night, and a pleasant moonlight over everything. I
had entered more into my romance since my arrival, and this poetic light
heightened the sentiment. What a drama if she turned out to be the
Count's daughter, and in love with me! What a delightful--_tragedy_
if she turned out to be the Count's wife! In this luxurious mood I was
accosted by a tall and very elegantly made gentleman, who appeared to be
about fifty. His air was courtly and graceful, and there was in his
whole manner and appearance something so distinguished that it was
impossible not to suspect him of being a person of rank. He had been standing upon the steps, looking out, like me, upon the
moonlight effects that transformed, as it were, the objects and
buildings in the little street. He accosted me, I say, with the
politeness, at once easy and lofty, of a French nobleman of the old
school. He asked me if I were not Mr. Beckett? I assented; and he
immediately introduced himself as the Marquis d'Harmonville (this
information he gave me in a low tone), and asked leave to present me
with a letter from Lord R----, who knew my father slightly, and had
once done me, also, a trifling kindness. This English peer, I may mention, stood very high in the political
world, and was named as the most probable successor to the distinguished
post of English Minister at Paris. I received it with a low bow, and
read:

 My Dear Beckett,

I beg to introduce my very dear friend, the Marquis d'Harmonville, who
will explain to you the nature of the services it may be in your power
to render him and us. He went on to speak of the Marquis as a man whose great wealth, whose
intimate relations with the old families, and whose legitimate influence
with the court rendered him the fittest possible person for those
friendly offices which, at the desire of his own sovereign, and of our
government, he has so obligingly undertaken. It added a great deal to my
perplexity, when I read, further:

By-the-bye, Walton was here yesterday, and told me that your seat was
likely to be attacked; something, he says, is unquestionably going on at
Domwell. You know there is an awkwardness in my meddling ever so
cautiously. But I advise, if it is not very officious, your making
Haxton look after it and report immediately. I fear it is serious. I
ought to have mentioned that, for reasons that you will see, when you
have talked with him for five minutes, the Marquis--with the concurrence
of all our friends--drops his title, for a few weeks, and is at present
plain Monsieur Droqville. I am this moment going to town, and can say no
more. Yours faithfully,
 R----


I was utterly puzzled. I could scarcely boast of Lord R----'s I
acquaintance. I knew no one named Haxton, and, except my hatter, no one
called Walton; and this peer wrote as if we were intimate friends! I
looked at the back of the letter, and the mystery was solved. And now,
to my consternation--for I was plain Richard Beckett--I read:

  "_To George Stanhope Beckett, Esq., M.P._"

I looked with consternation in the face of the Marquis.