Читать книгу Orphans of the Storm - Henry MacMahon - Страница 12

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“Bah!” exclaimed one. “You don’t expect us to believe that?”

“Yes, and more, too,” answered Picard, who enjoyed immensely being able to impart some information to his superiors. “Why, how do you suppose he acts to the common people who want to see him? His creditors, for instance?”

“Why, if they are importunate, he beats them, I suppose,” answered de Praille, who often “settled” bills thus.

“Yes, he beats them,” sneered Picard; “he pays them! Yes, gentlemen, he pays his tradespeople.” And the valet surveyed the group, enjoying the surprise he had given them.

“Oh, the poor fellow is lost!” exclaimed one of the party, who at the age of twenty had spent a large fortune and was now living on his wits.

“Completely,” affirmed Picard, “and all owing to the company he keeps. He won’t be guided by me––”

28

“The Chevalier Maurice de Vaudrey!”

Picard’s further revelations were cut short by the entry of his master who dismissed the valet and presented his apologies to the company.

In any assemblage the young Chevalier of twenty-two might have been remarked for his Greek God features and the occasional smile that made him look, from time to time, a veritable bright Phoebus Apollo.

He was far handsomer, far more attractive than the host, but a young-old cynic about these goings-on. Nephew of the police prefect of Paris, he had been specially invited to forestall––by reason of his presence––any Governmental swooping down on Praille’s wild party. Evidently he was not thinking of morals or of license, but his thoughts were far other.

“The people cry out for bread,” said the Chevalier, looking at the board and thinking of the shrieking beggars.

Marquis de Praille raised his fashionable lorgnette, contemplating a vast chateau-like confection on the table, and sprung his little joke.

“Why don’t they eat cake?” he replied airily, with a cackling laugh.