"Monseigneur, I was jesting. I thought your Highness, in deigning to allow me to talk frankly, would be amused at my whims; that is why I permitted myself to say such improper things. Can your Highness suppose that I would dare cherish the least resentment for the pleasantries this charming lady addressed to me? I am too gallant, too much of a French knight for that I will even ask your Highness, in case, as I hope, the loan takes place, to offer to this respectable lady what we men of the strong-box, as she so amusingly called us just now, call pin-money for her toilet,--a few rolls of a thousand louis. Ladies always have some little purchases to make, and--" "M. Pascal," said the prince, who enjoyed this humiliation which he had not the courage to inflict on Pascal, "you are a miserable scoundrel. Go out!" "Ah, so, monseigneur! Do you mean seriously to treat me in this way?" cried Pascal. The prince without replying rang vigorously; an officer entered. "You see that man," said the archduke, indicating Pascal by a gesture; "look at him." "Yes, monseigneur." "Do you know his name?" "Yes, monseigneur; it is M. Pascal." "Would you recognise him again?" "Perfectly, monseigneur." "Very well. Conduct this man to the door of the vestibule, and if he ever has the impudence to present himself here, drive him away in disgrace." "We will not fail to do it, monseigneur," replied the officer, who with his comrades had endured the insolence of M. Pascal. Our hero, realising the ruin of his hopes, and having no longer a point to gain, recovered his audacity, held up his head and said to the prince, who, sufficiently avenged, was eager to join Madeleine in the adjoining chamber: "Wait, M. archduke, the courage and baseness of both of us are of the same feather,--the other day I was strong for reason of your cowardice, as now you are strong for reason of mine. The only brave person here is that damned woman with the black eyebrows and blond hair; but I will have my revenge on her and on you!" The prince, angered at being thus addressed in the presence of one of his subordinates, became purple, and stamped his foot in fury. "Will you go out, sir?" cried the officer, putting his hand on the hilt of his sword, as a threat to M. Pascal. "Out of here, or, if not--" "Softly, M. fighter," replied Pascal, coolly, as he retired, "softly, sir, they do not cut up people with a sword here, you see! And we are in France, you see! And we have, you see, some good little commissaries of police who receive the complaints of an honest citizen who is maltreated."