"But you are what I want," he replied. "A man--a responsible man, and not a machine." "Bah," said I, shrugging my shoulders, "what are we doing--work that any could do. What am I wanted for? I have done nothing but write a few letters and frighten a handful of farmers in Provence." The Vicomte de Clericy coughed confidentially. "My dear Howard," he answered, looking at the door to make sure that it was closed. "I am getting an old man. I am only fit to manage my affairs while all is tranquil and in order. Tell me--as man to man--will things remain tranquil and in order? You know as well as I do that the Emperor has a malady from which there is no recovery. And the Empress, ah! yes--she is a clever woman. She has spirit. It is not every woman who would take this journey to Egypt to open the Suez Canal and make that great enterprise a French undertaking. But has a woman ever governed France successfully--from the boudoir or the throne? Look back into history, my dear Howard, and tell me what the end of a woman's government has always been." It was the first time that my old patron had named politics in my hearing, or acknowledged their bearing upon the condition of private persons in France. His father had been of the emigration. He himself had been born in exile. The family prestige was but a ghost of its former self--and I had hitherto treated the subject as a sore one and beyond my province. The Vicomte had sat down at my table. As for me, I was already on the broad window seat, looking down into the garden. Lucille was there upbraiding a gardener. I could see the nature of their conversation from the girl's face. She was probably wanting something out of season. Women often do. The man was deprecatory, and pointed contemptuously towards the heavens with a rake. There was a long silence in the room which was called my study. "I think, mon ami," said my companion at length, "that there is another reason." "Yes," answered I, bluntly, "there is." I did not look round, but continued to watch Lucille in the garden. The Vicomte sat in silence--waiting, no doubt, for a further explanation. Failing to get this, he said, rather testily as I thought: "Is the reason in the garden, my friend, that your eyes are fixed there?" "Yes, it is. It is scolding the gardener. And I think I am better away from the Hotel Clericy, Monsieur le Vicomte." The old man slowly rose and came to the window, standing behind me. "Oh--la, la!" he muttered in his quaint way--an exclamation uncomplimentary to myself; for our neighbours across channel reserve the syllables exclusively for their disasters. We looked down at Lucille, standing amid the chrysanthemums, lending to their pink and white bloom a face as fresh as any of the flowers. "But it is a child, mon ami," said the Vicomte, with his tolerant smile.