“Then, if he is not mad, I should not wonder if you told me next that he is King of the Isles.” “Certainly, Madame, he is King of the Isles.” “How? Your master, Monsieur De L’Ile, King of the Isles?” “Assuredly, Madame, since he says it.” “Oh, then, since this is so, I see how it is. I have arrived at Bedlam, and we are all lunatics together!” exclaimed the visitor, highly provoked. “Has Madame any orders?” inquired the woman, humbly. “Yes; lay that child on the bed, and go and send Louis to me.” “Yes, Madame.” And the woman left the room to do her errand. In a few moments, Louis appeared at the chamber door, bowed and stood waiting. “Louis, how long has your master been mad?” inquired the lady, peremptorily. “Forgive, but Madame has been deceived; my master is not mad.” “Then I suppose that he is really King of the Isles?” questioned the guest, ironically. “Undoubtedly, Madame, since he says.” “And he is not mad?” “Assuredly not, Madame.” “Then I am, that is all.” “Has Madame any orders?” “No—yes; tell Madeleine to return to me.” The old man bowed deeply and retired. Madame clasped her temples with both hands. “Yes,” she said; “it is I, without doubt, who am mad, or shall soon become so. Here I arrive at the extremity of the civilized world—the very jumping-off place, and what do I find? a courtly madman, who calls himself King of the Isles, and a pair of mulatto savages, who address me in the elegantly turned phrases of the Tuileries, and confirm his title——Ah, in a good hour! here comes Mademoiselle, my maid of honor!” The entrance of the mulatto put an end to Madame’s soliloquy, and suggested the propriety of arranging her toilet. With the assistance of Madeleine, her black satin dressing-gown was arranged, her well-dyed black ringlets smoothed, the white lace collar and mits put on, and Madame was ready to go down to breakfast. Madeleine remained to take care of the child. Louis stood outside the door, bowed, and preceded the lady to show her the way to the breakfast parlor. It was a delightful room on the right hand of the hall, with its floor covered with straw matting. Its many muslin-draped windows were open to a view of rolling green meadows, covered with tender spring vegetation, and variegated with apple, peach, and cherry trees, all in full bloom. And beyond, the wide expanse of sparkling, leaping blue water stretched away until its boundaries were lost under the purple, crimson, and gold of the morning horizon. The breakfast table, covered with fine white damask, and adorned with a service of silver and white Sevres, was laden with all the luxuries of the season. Monsieur De L’Ile (unless the reader prefers that I should call him the King of the Isles) stood ready to hand Madame to the table—an act of gallantry that he performed with the stately courtesy of a Guise or a Medici.