"You see," he said to Colville and Barebone, "I have kept my promise, I have thrown open this old house once more for to-night's meeting. You will find that many friends have made the journey to Paris for the occasion--Madame de Chantonnay and Albert, Madame de Rathe and many from the Vendée and the West whom you have met on your journey. And to-night one may speak without fear, for none will be present who are not vouched for by the Almanac de Gotha. There are no Royalists _pour rire_ or _pour vivre_ to-night. You have but time to change your clothes and dine. Your luggage arrived yesterday. You will forgive the stupidity of old servants who have forgotten their business. Come, I will lead the way and show you your rooms." He took a candle and did the honours of the deserted dust-ridden house in the manner of the high calling which had been his twenty years ago when Charles X was king. For some there lingers a certain pathos in the sight of a belated survival, while the majority of men and women are ready to smile at it instead. And yet the Monarchy lasted eight centuries and the Revolution eight years. Perhaps Fate may yet exact payment for the excesses of those eight years from a nation for which the watching world already prepares a secondary place in the councils of empire. The larger room had been assigned to Loo. There was a subtle difference in the Marquis's manner toward him. He made an odd bow as he quitted the room. "There," said Colville, whose room communicated with this great apartment by a dressing-room and two doors. He spoke in English, as they always did when they were alone together. "There--you are launched. You are _lancé_, my friend. I may say you are through the shoals now and out on the high seas--" He paused, candle in hand, and looked round the room with a reflective smile. It was obviously the best room in the house, with a fireplace as wide as a gate, where logs of pine burnt briskly on high iron dogs. The bed loomed mysteriously in one corner with its baldachin of Gobelin tapestry. Here, too, the dim scent of fallen monarchy lingered in the atmosphere. A portrait of Louis XVI in a faded frame hung over the mantelpiece. "And the time will come," pursued Colville, with his melancholy, sympathetic smile, "when you will find it necessary to drop the pilot--to turn your face seaward and your back upon old recollections and old associations. You cannot make an omelette without breaking eggs, my friend." "Oh yes," replied Barebone, with a brisk movement of the head, "I shall have to forget Farlingford." Colville had moved toward the door that led to his own room. He paused, examining the wick of the candle he carried in his hand. Then, though glib of speech, he decided in favour of silence, and went away without making reply.