First there was the Vicomte de Bergillac, one of his most important and
influential patrons for many reasons, whose presence alone was more than
sufficient guarantee for whoever might follow. Then there was the
Marquise de St. Ethol, one of the _haute noblesse_, to welcome whom was
a surpassing honor.
And then Monsieur Guy Poynton, the young English gentleman, whose single
appearance here a few weeks back had started all the undercurrents of
political intrigue, and who for the justification of French journalism
should at that moment have been slowly dying at the Morgue.
And with him the beautiful young English lady who had come in search of
him, and who, as she had left the place in the small hours of the
morning with Monsieur Louis, should certainly not now have reappeared as
charming and as brilliant as ever, her eyes soft with happiness, and her
laugh making music more wonderful than the violins of his little
orchestra.
And following her the broad-shouldered young Englishman, Sir George
Duncombe, who had once entertained a very dangerous little party in his
private room upstairs, and against whom the dictum had gone forth.
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