When at length we reentered M. Des Illes’s drawing-room a brighter fire was on the hearth than is common in France. About it M. Des Illes set with care, in their cradles, the half-dozen bottles we had fetched from the cellar. I ventured to say that it would be long before they were warm enough to drink; but the Duke said that was quite a modern notion, and that he liked to warm his wine on the tongue. It seemed to me odd; but I am told it was once thought the thing to have red wines of the temperature of the cellar. When the wine was set at a correct distance from the fire, and the blaze heartened a little with added fuel, M. Des Illes excused himself, and, returning after some twenty minutes, explained that he had been arranging a dressing for the salad, but that it would be an hour before supper could be made ready. "That," I said, "will give us full leisure to ask some questions." "_Pardie!_" said St. Maur. "Had I been you, by this time I should have asked fifty." "No doubt," laughed his father; and then, turning to us, "Usually when we dress as you see, we are alone—Des Illes and I at least—men of a forgotten past. But to-night friendly chance has sent you here, and it were but courteous that we explain what may seem absurd. M. Des Illes will tell you the story." "It is many years since I heard it," said St. Maur. "I shall be well pleased to hear it once more." "But it is long." "_Fi donc_, my friend. The wine will be the better for waiting," said the Duke; "and, after all, some one must tell these gentlemen. As for me, I should spoil a good story." Then Pierce and I said how delighted we should be to listen, but indeed we little knew how strange a tale we were to hear. "It shall be as the Duke likes," said M. Des Illes. "Let us move nearer to the fireside. It is chilly, I think." Upon this we drew to the fire. Our host added a small fagot of tender twigs, so that a brief blaze went up and lit the dark velvets and jet buttons of the company. "You will all have heard it," said Des Illes; "but it is as you desire. It will be new to our friends." "And surely strange," said the Duke’s son. "My memory may prove short, Duke. If I fail, you will kindly aid me." "Ah, my friend, neither your wine nor your memory has failed. But make haste, or your supper will be spoiled while we await a tale which is slow in coming." "The things I shall speak of took place in the month of July, 1794. Alas! this being now 1853, I was in those days close to eleven years of age. My good Duke, here, was himself some two years younger. My father had been purveyor of wines to the Court, as his father had been, and I may say, too, that we were broken-down nobles who liked better this way of earning a meal than by clinging to the skirts of more lucky men of no better blood than we.