“I will,” I said boldly; “I was there.” “You, sir!” “Even I, Monsieur.” “How dared you? What do you mean?” He put his hand to his heart. I was nearest him. I stretched out my arm to help him, but he thrust me away. “Answer!” he cried, imperiously forgetful of the King, the Queen, everybody. “It is very simple,” I replied quietly. “On my approach to Paris I had the good fortune to be of assistance to Mademoiselle.” “In what capacity?” “She was set upon by three ruffians. I drove them off.” “Whereabouts?” I was ignorant of the road, but Mademoiselle came to my rescue. “Near Paris, on the Versailles road, Monsieur.” “Where was your escort?” queried the Duke. “I was alone.” “Alone on the Versailles road?” “In my service, Duke,” said the Queen softly. “Pardon, Your Majesty. That is sufficient. Proceed, Monsieur.” “I fell in love with your granddaughter.” “How dared you, sir; a beggarly——?” “Monsieur Burnham’s patrimony includes rich land enough to make a county in France,” deftly put in Dr. Franklin at this juncture. “But in America—” said the Duke scornfully. “The finest land the sun ever set on, Monsieur,” broke in Commodore Jones hotly. The King waved his hand for silence, and the Duke turned to me again. “I sought your granddaughter far and wide, and at last found her at the Hôtel de Rivau-Huet.” I had a hard task to keep to the truth and yet make a satisfactory story. “And was it at her invitation you entered her apartment?” “Monsieur le Duc!” exclaimed the King hastily, in warning. “Grandfather!” cried the girl, recoiling from the outrageous accusation. “Sir!” I replied, with spirit, “the question is an insult to your blood! I came unexpectedly, unknown, unwelcome—like a thief in the night.” “You dared——?” “It was a prank, a foolish trick; I have no excuse but my passion.” “And you were alone with my granddaughter?” “I was there, Monsieur le Duc,” said Éspiau. “Then tell me the truth now, unless you forget your ancient fidelity,” exclaimed the Duke, turning to the unhappy servant. “You saw this gentleman there?” I shook my head at him, but he was looking at Mademoiselle. Disregarding my warning glance, she nodded. The seal upon the servant’s lips was broken. “Yes, Monsieur le Duc,” he said. “And where was he?” “In Mademoiselle’s—” he hesitated. “Speak!” thundered the old man. “Bedchamber, Monsieur.” “_Mon Dieu!_” cried the Duke, his composure giving way at last. He put his face in his hands with a movement singularly like that of Mademoiselle a short time before. Is it that Master Shakespeare in great crises voices the universal cry of the human heart? For like the father of Hero in “Much Ado About Nothing”—and indeed the whole affair was somewhat similar in my mind—the Duke finally broke forth: “‘Hath no man here a sword for me?’” I have not the sentence exactly, but I give the sense of it, and I pitied him from the bottom of my heart. But the love of the young is often cruel to the old.