It was a person of conspicuous appearance, both by reason of his great
height and leanness as well as his extreme age, who now descended the
straight stairway leading from the corridor above. At Court they would have
told you that the Prince de Gâtinais was a trifle insane, but he troubled
the Court very little, since he had spent the last twenty years, with brief
intermissions, at his château near Beaujolais, where, as rumor buzzed
it, he had fitted out a laboratory, and had devoted his old age to the
study of chemistry. "Between my flute and my retorts, my bees and my
chocolate-creams," the Prince was wont to say, "I manage to console myself
for the humiliating fact that even Death has forgotten my existence." For
he had a child's appetite for sweets, and was at this time past eighty,
though still well-nigh as active as Antoine de Soyecourt had ever been,
even when--a good half-century ago--he had served, with distinction under
Louis Quatorze.
To-night the Prince de Gâtinais was all in steel-gray, of a metallic
lustre, with prodigiously fine ruffles at his throat and wrists. You would
have found something spectral in the tall, gaunt old man, for his periwig
was heavily powdered, and his deep-wrinkled countenance was of an absolute
white, save for the thin, faintly bluish lips and the inklike glitter of
his narrowing eyes, as he now regarded the couple waiting hand in hand
before him, like children detected in mischief.
Little Louis Quillan had drawn an audible breath at first sight of the
newcomer. Monsieur Quillan did not speak, however, but merely waited.
"You have fattened," the Prince de Gâtinais said, at last, "I wish I could
fatten. It is incredible that a man who eats pounds of sugar daily should
yet remain a skeleton." His voice was guttural, and a peculiar slur
ran through his speech, caused by the loss of his upper front teeth at
Ramillies.
Louis Quillan came of a stock not lightly abashed. "I have fattened on a
new diet, monsieur,--on happiness. But, ma foi! I am discourteous. Permit
me, my father, to present Mademoiselle Nelchen Thorn, who has so far
honored me as to consent to become my wife. 'Nelchen, I present to you my
father, the Prince de Gâtinais."
"Oh--?" observed Nelchen, midway in her courtesy.
But the Prince had taken her fingers and he kissed them quite as though
they had been the finger-tips of the all-powerful Pompadour at Versailles
yonder. "I salute the future Marquise de Soyecourt. You young people will
sup with me, then?"
"No, monseigneur, for I am to wait upon the table," said Nelchen, "and
Father is at Sigéan overnight, having the mare shod, and there is only
Leon, and, oh, thank you very much indeed, monseigneur, but I had much
rather wait on the table."
The Prince waved his hand. "My valet, mademoiselle, is at your disposal.
Vanringham!" he called.
From the corridor above descended a tall red-headed fellow in black.
"Monseigneur--?"
"Go!" quickly said Louis de Soyecourt, while the Prince spoke with his
valet,--"go, Nelchen, and make yourself even more beautiful if such a thing
be possible. He will never resist you, my dear--ah, no, that is out of
nature."
"You will find more plates in the cupboard, Monsieur Vanringham," remarked
Nelchen, as she obediently tripped up the stairway, toward her room in the
right wing. "And the knives and forks are in the second drawer."
So Vanringham laid two covers in discreet silence; then bowed and withdrew
by the side door that led to the kitchen. The Prince had seated himself
beside the open fire, where he yawned and now looked up with a smile.
"Well, Louis," said the Prince de Gâtinais--"so Monsieur de Puysange and I
have run you to earth at last. And I find you have determined to defy me,
eh?"