Lorraine. Robert W. Chambers

square, the eyes of his wife.

      "Will you have the journals, dear?" she asked presently. She handed him the Gaulois, and he thanked her and opened it, peering closely at the black print.

      After a moment he read: "M. Ollivier declared, in the Corps Législatif, that 'at no time in the history of France has the maintenance of peace been more assured than to-day.' Oh, that journal is two weeks' old, Helen.

      "The treaty of Paris in 1856 assured peace in the Orient, and the treaty of Prague in 1866 assures peace in Germany," continued the vicomte; "I don't see why it should be necessary for Monsieur Ollivier to insist."

      He dropped the paper on the stones and touched his white mustache.

      "You are thinking of General Chanzy," said his wife, laughing—"you always twist your mustache like that when you're thinking of Chanzy."

      He smiled, for he was thinking of Chanzy, his sword-brother; and the hot plains of Oran and the dusty columns of cavalry passed before his eyes—moving, moving across a world of desert into the flaming disk of the setting sun.

      "Is to-day the 16th of July, Helen?"

      "Yes, dear."

      "Then Chanzy is coming back from Oran. I know you dread it. We shall talk of nothing but Abd-el-Kader and Spahis and Turcos, and how we lost our Kabyle tobacco at Bou-Youb."

      She had heard all about it, too; she knew every étape of the 48th of the Line—from the camp at Sathonay to Sidi-Bel-Abbès, and from Daya to Djebel-Mikaidon. Not that she cared for sabres and red trousers, but nothing that concerned her husband was indifferent to her.

      "I hope General Chanzy will come," she said, "and tell you all about those poor Kabyles and the Legion and that horrid 2d Zouaves that you and he laugh over. Are you tired, dear?"

      "No. Shall we play? I believe it was my move. How warm it is in the sun—no, don't stir, dear—I like it, and my gout is better for it. What do you suppose all those young people are doing? Hear Betty Castlemaine laugh! It is very fortunate for them, Helen, that I married an American with an American's disregard of French conventionalities."

      "I am very strict," said his wife, smiling; "I can survey them en chaperone."

      "If you turn around. But you don't."

      "I do when it is necessary," said Madame de Morteyn, indignantly; "Molly Hesketh is there."

      The vicomte laughed and picked up the knight again.

      "You see," he said, waving it in the air, "that I also have become a very good American. I think no evil until it comes, and when it comes I say, 'Shocking!'"

      "Georges!"

      "That's what I say, my dear—"

      "Georges!"

      "There, dear, I won't tease. Hark! What is that?"

      Madame de Morteyn leaned over the parapet.

      "It is Jean Bosquet. Shall I speak to him?"

      "Perhaps he has the Paris papers."

      "Jean!" she called; and presently the little postman came trotting up the long stone steps from the drive. Had he anything? Nothing for Monsieur le Vicomte except a bundle of the week's journals from Paris. So Madame de Morteyn took the papers, and the little postman doffed his cap again and trotted away, blue blouse fluttering and sabots echoing along the terrace pavement.

      "I am tired of chess," said the old vicomte; "would you mind reading the Gaulois?"

      "The politics, dear?"

      "Yes, the weekly summary—if it won't bore you."

      "Tais toi! Écoute. This is dated July 3d. Shall I begin?"

      "Yes, Helen."

      She held the paper nearer and read: "'A Paris journal publishes a despatch through l'agence Havas which declares that a deputation from the Spanish Government has left Madrid for Berlin to offer the crown of Spain to Leopold von Hohenzollern.'"

      "What!" cried the vicomte, angrily. Two chessmen tipped over and rolled among the others.

      "It's what it says, mon ami; look—see—it is exactly as I read it."

      "Are those Spaniards crazy?" muttered the vicomte, tugging at his imperial. "Look, Helen, read what the next day's journal says."

      His wife unfolded the paper dated the 4th of July and found the column and read: "'The press of Paris unanimously accuses the Imperial Government of allowing Prim and Bismarck to intrigue against the interests of France. The French ambassador, Count Benedetti, interviewed the King of Prussia at Ems and requested him to prevent Prince Leopold von Hohenzollern's acceptance. It is rumoured that the King of Prussia declined to interfere.'"

      Madame de Morteyn tossed the journal on to the terrace and opened another.

      "'On the 12th of July the Spanish ambassador to Paris informed the Duc de Gramont, Minister of Foreign Affairs, that the Prince von Hohenzollern renounces his candidacy to the Spanish throne.'"

      "À la bonheur!" said the vicomte, with a sigh of relief; "that settles the Hohenzollern matter. My dear, can you imagine France permitting a German prince to mount the throne of Spain? It was more than a menace—it was almost an insult. Do you remember Count Bismarck when he was ambassador to France? He is a man who fascinates me. How he used to watch the Emperor! I can see him yet—those puffy, pale eyes! You saw him also, dear—you remember, at Saint-Cloud?"

      "Yes; I thought him brusque and malicious."

      "I know he is at the bottom of this. I'm glad it is over. Did you finish the telegraphic news?"

      "Almost all. It says—dear me, Georges!—it says that the Duc de Gramont refuses to accept any pledge from the Spanish ambassador unless that old Von Werther—the German ambassador, you know—guarantees that Prince Leopold von Hohenzollern will never again attempt to mount the Spanish throne!"

      There was a silence. The old vicomte stirred restlessly and knocked over some more chessmen.

      "Sufficient unto the day—" he said, at last; "the Duc de Gramont is making a mistake to press the matter. The word of the Spanish ambassador is enough—until he breaks it. General Lebœuf might occupy himself in the interim—profitably, I think."

      "General Lebœuf is minister of war. What do you mean, Georges?"

      "Yes, dear, Lebœuf is minister of war."

      "And you think this German prince may some time again—"

      "I think France should be ready if he does. Is she ready? Not if Chanzy and I know a Turco from a Kabyle. Perhaps Count Bismarck wants us to press his king for guarantees. I don't trust him. If he does, we should not oblige him. Gramont is making a grave mistake. Suppose the King of Prussia should refuse and say it is not his affair? Then we would be obliged to accept that answer, or—"

      "Or what, Georges?"

      "Or—well, my dear—or fight. But Gramont is not wicked enough, nor is France crazy enough, to wish to go to war over a contingency—a possibility that might never happen. I foresee a snub for our ambassador at Ems, but that is all. Do you care to play any more? I tipped over my king and his castles."

      "Perhaps it is an omen—the King of Prussia, you know, and his fortresses. I feel superstitious, Georges!"

      The vicomte smiled and set the pieces up on their proper squares.

      "It is settled; the Spanish ambassador pledges his word that Prince Hohenzollern will not be King of Spain. France should be satisfied. It is my move, I believe, and I move so—check to you, my dear!"

      "I resign, dearest. Listen! Here come the children up the terrace steps."

      "But—but—Helen, you must not resign so soon. Why should you?"

      "Because