She looked at him wonderingly. "Is there nothing more I can do for you?"

"Nothing! Nothing! Except--no, nothing!"

"You were about to ask something?" she observed with more sympathy.

"If you would not think me presuming--if you would not deem it an offense--you remind me of one I loved and lost--it is so long ago since I felt her kiss for the last time--I am so near the grave--"

With tears in her eyes, she bent her head and her fresh young lips just touched his withered brow.

"Good-by," she said. "I am so sorry for you!" And she was gone, leaving him sitting there motionless as though life had departed.

A rattling cab that clattered noisily past the cabildo and calaboza, and swung around the square, aroused the marquis. He arose, stopped the driver, and entered the rickety vehicle.

"The law office of Marks and Culver," said the marquis.

The man lashed his horse and the attenuated quadruped flew like a winged Pegasus, soon drawing up before the attorneys' office.

Fortunately Culver was in, and, although averse to business on any day--thinking more of his court-yard and his fountain than of his law books--this botanist-solicitor made shift to comply with the marquis'

instructions and reluctantly earned a modest fee. He even refused to express surprise at my lord's story; one wife in London, another in Paris; why, many a southern gentleman had two families--quadroons being plentiful, why not? Culver un.o.btrusively yawned, and, with fine courtesy, bowed the marquis out.

Slowly the latter retraced his steps to his home; his feet were heavy as lead; his smile was forced; he glanced frequently over his shoulder, possessed by a strange fantasy.

"I think I will lie down a little," he said to his valet. "In this easy chair; that will do. I am feeling well; only tired. How that ma.s.s is repeated in my mind! That is because it is Palestrina, Francois; not because it is a vehicle to salvation, employed by the gibbering priests. Never let your heart rule your head, boy. Don't mistake anything for reality. 'What have you seen in your travels?' was asked of Sage Evemere. 'Follies!' was the reply. 'Follies, follies everywhere!' We never live; we are always in the expectation of living."

He made an effort to smile which was little more than a grimace.

"A cigar, Francois!"

"My lord, are you well?--"

The marquis flew into a rage and the valet placed an imported weed in his master's hand.

"A light, Francois!"

The valet obeyed. For a moment the strong cigar seemed to soothe the old man, although his hand shook like an aspen as he held it.

"Now, bring me my Voltaire," commanded the marquis. "The volume on the table, idiot! Ah! here is what I wish: 'It takes twenty years to bring man from the state of embryo, and from that of a mere criminal, as he is in his first infancy, to the point when his reason begins to dawn.

It has taken thirty centuries to know his structure; it would take eternity to know something of the soul; it takes but an instant to kill him.' But an instant; but an instant!" he repeated.

He puffed feebly at the cigar.

"It is cold here, Francois."

The servant consulted the thermometer.

"It is five degrees warmer than you are accustomed to, my lord," he replied.

"Bring me the thermometer," commanded the old man. "You should not lie, Francois. It is a bad fault in servants. Leave it to your masters; it is a polite vice. The privilege of the world's potentates, diplomats and great people. Never fall into the rut of lying, Francois, or you will soon outlive your usefulness as a valet."

"You can see that I speak the truth, my lord," was the response, as calm as ever, for nothing disturbed or ruffled this ideal servant.

He held out the thermometer for the marquis' inspection and the latter examined it carefully. The cigar fell from his fingers to the floor.

The attentive valet picked it up and threw it into the grate.

"I believe, Francois," stammered the marquis, "that the fault lies with me. It is I--I, who am growing cold like death."

"Yes, my lord," answered the calm and imperturbable servant.

"'Yes?' you blockhead!" shrieked the master. "Do you know what you are saying?"

"Well, no, then, my lord," responded the unmoved valet.

"Yes and no!" shouted the marquis in a voice that was wildly discordant. "What do you mean?"

"Whatever my lord pleases," was the quiet response.

"_Mon Dieu_! I'll discharge you."

The servant only smiled.

"Why did you smile?"

"Oh, my lord--"

"Was it not that you thought it a good joke for a dying man to discharge his servant?"

"My lord is quick to catch the humorous side of anything," returned Francois.

"Begone, idiot! You are waiting for my death to discharge you. I can see it in your eyes. Yet stay, Francois, for, if you leave me, I shall be alone. You will not leave me?"

"As my lord desires," was Francois' response.

"I imagine I should feel better if I had my footbath."

The servant removed the shoes and silken stockings from his master's feet and propped him up in a chair, throwing a blanket over his shoulders and heaping more wood upon the fire in the grate.

"More fire, you idiot!" cried the marquis, peevishly. "Do you not see that I am freezing?"

"It is ten degrees above the temperature my lord always ordered,"

retorted Francois, coolly.

"Ten degrees! Oh, you wish to remind me that the end is approaching?

You do not dare deny it!" The valet shrugged his shoulders.

"But I am not gone yet." He wagged his head cunningly and began to laugh to himself. His mind apparently rambled, for he started to chant a French love song in a voice that had long since lost its capacity for a sustained tone. The words were distinct, although the melody was broken, and the spectacle was gruesome enough. As he concluded he looked at the valet as if for approbation and began to mumble about his early love affairs.

"Bah, Francois," he said shrilly, "I'll be up to-morrow as gay as ever. _Vive l'amour! vive la joie!_ It was a merry life we led, eh, Francois?"

"Merry indeed, my lord."