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go on,” Lord Hartcourt said. “You were telling me about the Duc de Mabillon.”

      “Oh yes, of course,” Bertram said. “He was sitting by a table near the door and looked exactly like a tortoise, his neck choked by his collar, his face deeply lined and he had hardly any hair on his head. My father pointed him out to me. ‘That’s the Duc de Mabillon,’ he said and as I stared a woman came into the restaurant and all heads turned round to look at her. It must have been Lily, of course, but I was looking at the Duc and thinking that he was not in the least my idea of what a French Duc ought to look like.”

      “So he really existed,” Lord Hartcourt murmured in quiet surprise.

      “Oh, very much so,” Bertram answered. “Years later when I came back to Paris I heard the whole story from my father. It appears that Lily was married to another Frenchman, a rather unsavoury chap, a hanger-on of the Nobility, who had just enough decent blood in him to be accepted on the outer fringe of their stuffy and stuck-up Society. Anyway, he married Lily in England, brought her over to live here and somehow or other they met the Duc. The old man, twice widowed, had one look at Madame Reinbard and took them both under his wing, so to speak.”

      “A dirty old man in fact!” Lord Hartcourt exclaimed.

      “But, as my father used to say, a magnificent connoisseur where beautiful things were concerned and Lily was undoubtedly the most beautiful thing he had ever seen. The three of them became inseparable. Of course the Duc paid Reinbard’s debts, set him up in a better apartment than he could afford and made life very easy for him and, naturally, particularly easy where his wife was concerned.”

      “You tell the story well, Bertie,” Lord Hartcourt smiled. “If you are not careful, you will find yourself writing a novel about the redoubtable Lily.”

      Bertram laughed.

      “I had it all from my father and, I assure you, if anyone ever knew the truth about Lily de Mabillon, it was he. Apparently he was rather besotted himself by her at one time.”

      “So I understand that it could be said of half the men in Paris,” Lord Hartcourt remarked drily. “The nineties must have been very gay indeed.”

      “By Jove they were,” Bertram agreed, “and apparently Lily had rather a soft spot for my old boy. Anyway she used to tell him all about herself, that she came from a decent English family and that she would never have married Reinbard if she had not been so terribly poor. And, of course, the idea of living in Paris had seemed so attractive.”

      “It certainly paid a dividend where she was concerned,” Lord Hartcourt said cynically.

      “It did when Reinbard died. He was drinking far too much and got pneumonia one cold winter. Lily’s enemies, of course, always say that she was too busy entertaining the Duc to send for the doctor. Whatever the reason he died and the bets were a hundred to one against the Duc ever marrying her.”

      “But he did,” Lord Hartcourt said, sitting back in his writing chair, a twinkle in his eyes as he listened to his friend’s story.

      There was, however, a cynical twist to his mouth, as if he was not prepared to believe the whole story, even while he was ready to give it his attention.

      “Oh, Lily saw to it that he married her all right,” Bertram observed. “One of the Russian Grand Dukes came along at that time, I have forgotten which one it was, but, just like Boris and that other chap who are here now, he was splashing his money about, snaffling all the best women and giving parties and presents that no ordinary fellow could compete with. My father always said that Lily gave the Duc exactly twenty-four hours to make up his mind.”

      “As to whether he was going to marry her?” Lord Hartcourt asked.

      “Exactly,” Bertram agreed. “It was a gold ring or the Russian roubles. The Grand Duke had offered her a Château on the outskirts of Paris. She already had a rope of fine pearls from him, which she had the impudence to wear with her Wedding dress.”

      “So that was how Lily became a Duchesse,” Lord Hartcourt chuckled.

      He rose to his feet again and walked to the door.

      “A salutary lesson for all young ladies who aspire to succeed in life. Come on, Bertie, I am hungry.”

      “Damn you, if you are not ungrateful!” Bertram Cunningham replied, getting down from the desk. “I kill myself entertaining you with one of the most intriguing histoires that Paris has ever produced and all you can think about is your stomach.”

      “I am really thinking about my head. The champagne last night was a good vintage, but there was too much of it.”

      “It sounds like a tip-top party. I just cannot understand why you left so early.”

      “I will tell you why,” Lord Hartcourt said as they walked down the marble staircase into the Embassy hall. “They were starting their usual wild horseplay. Terence was squirting the girls with soda syphons and Madelaine, what is her name, was screaming so loudly that it got on my nerves.”

      “The Archduke Boris seems rather interested in her.”

      “As far as I am concerned, he can have her.”

      “Well, actually none of them measure up to Henriette,” Bertram said convivially. “I must say one thing about you, Vane, your taste in horses and women is impeccable.”

      “It is exactly what I have always thought myself, but I am gratified that you agree with me.”

      “Damn it all, I always do agree with you, don’t I?” Bertram asked. “That is the whole trouble. If I had seen Henriette before you I should certainly have offered her my protection.”

      Lord Hartcourt smiled.

      “Poor Bertie, I pipped you at the post, did I? To console you, let me say that you are not rich enough, you are just not rich enough for Henriette.”

      “I am prepared to agree over that one too,” Bertram said in a resigned tone. “But I can tell you, if I don’t find a ladybird soon, I shall be getting myself an odd reputation in Paris. All the toffs like you seem to have themselves fixed up. I am just unlucky. Do you remember that blasted German Prince who enticed Lulu away from me? I just could not compete with a Villa at Monte Carlo and a yacht. As it was it nearly broke me buying her a motor car. A rotten machine it was too. It was always breaking down.”

      “They all do. Give me a decent piece of horseflesh every time.”

      They passed through the Embassy door into the courtyard.

      “That reminds me,” Bertram continued. “I am thinking about buying a new racehorse. I would like your opinion on it. It is from the Labrisé stables.”

      “Don’t say any more,” Lord Hartcourt replied. “The answer is ‘no’. Labrisé is one of the biggest crooks on the French turf. I would not touch anything he offered me, even if it was a donkey.”

      Bertram’s face fell.

      “Damn it all, Vane, you do damp a fellow down,” he grumbled.

      “Where you are concerned,” Lord Hartcourt said. “You can lose your money much more easily and more pleasantly on women.”

      “Perhaps you are right,” Bertram said brightening. “Let’s go and look at André’s little nun. She might well suit me, who knows?”

      Lord Hartcourt did not answer and it appeared to his friend as though he had lost interest in the subject.

      *

      Gardenia all morning had been waiting a little apprehensively for her first meeting with her aunt.

      She had slept late, far later than she had intended and, when she awoke, it was to find the sunshine struggling through the heavy curtains.

      Getting out of bed, she drew them back and had her first glimpse of the grey hotch-potch of French roofs that seemed to stretch almost interminably away

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