Whatever they were saying, they were reiterating it with continually increasing force. The man in the tight frock-coat began hissing it between his pointed teeth, and the pretty woman crushed the last fragment of the fan to ivory slivers on the floor. At last, the gentleman rose, and with a _pardieu_ which even May’s untrained ear could recognize, upset a champagne glass, and strode hastily away; the lady eyed him until he disappeared, and then drooped her long lashes, and hid her eyes in her pretty hand. Her bosom rose and fell convulsively, and May’s chivalric heart beat sympathetically in the same time. Suddenly her deep eyes opened, and opened full on Austin May’s. “Sir,” said she, in English, “you are a gentleman--save me!” Save her? Aye, Austin May would have saved her from the devil or the deep sea, and with no thought of salvage. All he said was, “Why, certainly.” It afterward occurred to him that he should have said, “Pray, command me, madam.” But this seemed to satisfy her, for she unbosomed herself directly. “I know I may trust an American,” said she. “Listen--I will confide to you my true name. That man--that _mouchard_--with whom you saw me, sinks I am ze Comtesse Polacca de Valska. Well, I am ze Comtesse Polacca de Valska. Now you know all.” Unfortunately, Austin May knew very little. But evidently the Comtesse Polacca de Valska was a personage of European reputation. He bowed. “What can I do?” said he, earnestly. “Madam de Valska has but to command.” (This was better.) “Hist!” said she, mysteriously. “Polacca de Valska--never mention ze name. Eet ees a spell, in Poland; even now my noble Polacco languishes in Siberia; but in France, in Russia--eet ees a doom. Say zat I--say zat I am your compatriot--Mrs. Walkers--anysing.” And the nerve which the unhappy countess had shown throughout the interview suddenly collapsed. She burst into tears. As she dissolved, the American congealed, all the blue blood of Boston rigid in his veins. When the little Frenchman appeared, May offered his arm to the countess; and together they swept proudly to the door of the hotel. “_Arrêtez_,” cried the Frenchman. “_Connaissez-vous_--do you know, sare, who it is?” “It is my friend--my friend, Mrs. Peter Faneuil, of Boston,” said May, with a readiness that charmed him at the time. “_Mais, monsieur_----” “Do you dare, sir, to----” May glared at him for a moment, and the latter recoiled, like any Frenchman, before his Anglo-Saxon attitude. They entered the hall of the hotel; the countess pressed his arm convulsively in her gratitude, her heart too full for words. “_Merci, chevalier_,” said she, simply. May’s heart bounded at the compliment, and with satisfaction that he understood her French. “I have a carriage here,” said she; and they found the elegant landau still at the door. “Where shall we go?” “I will tell you later,” said she.