“Bonaparte is a Corsican—that is to say an Italian bravo, who prefers darker methods. Listen to the sequel. A few days later, as I was sitting at the card table in the _kursaal_ at Homburg, a man suddenly rose, accused me of cheating, and ended his remarks by flinging the contents of his wine glass in my face. Of course, a meeting was inevitable. It was to be a duel to the death. Later that night my second came to me in great distress, advising me to cry off. He had discovered that my adversary was a secret agent of the First Consul—none other, in fact, than the famous, or infamous, Abbé Spada.” “I have heard of him. The first swordsman of France?” “So-called. Well, we met, and considering the many men whom Spada has killed in his day, I felt justified in giving him his passport to Gehenna.” “You killed him!” “Within three minutes.” Ouvaroff regarded the speaker with admiration. “That’s Bonaparte’s way of dealing with the objects of his displeasure,” concluded Wilfrid. “But I’ll be even yet with the Little Corsican for destroying my picture.” Now, as Wilfrid gazed down upon the dancers swaying rhythmically to the sound of the music, his eye was caught by a lofty figure standing, solitary and contemplative, within an arched entrance that opened upon the ballroom. It was a middle-aged man with silvering hair, whose cold, handsome face wore a somewhat sombre expression. He was clad in Court costume, carried his hat under his arm, and sparkled all over with diamonds from his powdered _queue_ to his shoe buckles. It was the diamonds that attracted Wilfrid’s attention; he did not like to see a man so bedizened. “Do you know that gentleman, Serge?” asked Wilfrid, indicating the magnate in question. “His face seems familiar to me.” “Count Arcadius Baranoff, one of the Czar’s ministers. You must have seen him in London, for he was formerly ambassador at the Court of St. James’s. As rich as Crœsus. One of the men,” the Prince went on in tones of contempt, “who in the last reign climbed to power through the bedroom of the Empress Catharine. He is a proof of the power of the personal equation in international politics.” “How so?” “He is a rank barbarian, whose polish is but skin deep. When he was in London his _brusquerie_ offended the men, his coarseness the women, and he left England burning with a desire to do her hurt, and now the time has come, he thinks.” “Thinks!” “You are aware that, after fighting each other for a year or more, the Czar Paul and Consul Bonaparte are now fast friends. This is mainly due to the diplomacy of Count Baranoff, who was sent to Paris as the Czar’s envoy: it was his hand that signed the Franco-Russian treaty. While in the French capital he tickled the Parisian fancy with a pamphlet, ‘Is it possible for an Englishman to possess sense?’” “Oh, indeed!” muttered Wilfrid, with a glance at the distant pamphleteer.