T was characteristic of the Duke of Belleville—and to many the trait will seem a graceful one—to attach no exaggerated importance to the antiques and curiosities which he had inherited from his ancestors or himself acquired by purchase. Indeed, he was accused of holding too lightly even things of real beauty or historic interest. For example, he gave the Queen Bess Flagon to a pretty girl whom he had never seen before and never saw again, just to please her—and himself. ("And two people better worth pleasing I can't imagine," reflected the Duke.) He presented his cousin, Lady Anastasia Vieilleroche—the name is pronounced Veelrock—with the shoes discarded by Marie Antoinette on her wedding-day as being too tight, though he well knew that her ladyship, having the family temperament and the smallest foot in London, would wear them—and wear them out—at her next dance, as in fact she did. And—but there is really no need to multiply instances of his good-nature, carelessness, or caprice, excusable only by the reflection that man's well-being lies not in the multitude of his possessions, but in the free play of the human spirit.
Yet he did attach a sentimental value to the sapphire which the Medici had in unredeemed pledge from Constantine Palaeologos, and Lorenzo the Magnificent gave to Simonetta Cattaneo for her wedding-gift. Since that time—but never mind the est of its history. The Duke valued it for Simonetta's sake, and dreamed, perhaps, in those idle fancies of his, that some day he would find another lady whose wearing of it should not seem sacrilege.
At seven o'clock on a December evening the Duke roused himself from a brief but well-earned repose. In the afternoon he had attended a charitable meeting at the Mansion House, which had been addressed by ministers of all—the Duke thought it must be all—denominations and other eminent persons.
"Frank," said he, "plain clothes, my Ribbon, Simonetta's Sapphire, and the revolver with the ivory butt."
"Yes, your Grace," said Frank, placing a whisky-and-Nocera-water on an adjacent table. "But may I suggest that your Grace's new Browning is a more useful weapon?"
"Not in all ways, Frank." The Duke smiled reflectively. "The old one comes in very handy sometimes, and No, I think I won't drink that stuff to-night."
Frank retired to the dressing-room adjoining. The Duke took a note from his pocket. It was signed "Stasy," and ran as follows: "Don't forget to-night. You promised, you know you did! She's perfectly charming, and he's Oh, by the way, he thinks he's a cousin of the King of Spain, so call him Highness. And please wear your Blue Ribbon. I know you hate it, but do! Be there eight-fifteen sharp, and don't forget the sapphire."
"She's charming, and he thinks he's a cousin of the King of Spain! And I think—well, I don't quite know what I think," mused the Duke, as he smoked a cigarette. "However, I like to please Stasy, and it's some weeks since anything happened." He was still a little drowsy, and fell to thinking lazily in how odd a fashion people "bobbed up" in town for a season or two and then disappeared again, were somebody's cousins and very charming, gave and ate dinners, went away, and weren't missed. "So I dare say these people are all right," he ended charitably, as he shook himself out of his chair and repaired to his dressing-room.
At twenty minutes past eight a small but swift electric brougham, driven by Monsieur Ferdinand—his Grace's chief chauffeur—in person, was at the door. The Duke, having forgotten nothing—neither Ribbon, revolver, nor Simonetta's Sapphire—came out.
"Good evening, Ferdinand. To the Comtesse de Montcorné's place." He paused on the pavement, smiling at Ferdinand.
"Certainly, your Grace." Ferdinand, however, indulged in a slight lift of his bushy brows.
"You know her address? Ferdinand, it's wonderful how you keep up with things."
"She's taken Meldart Lodge for two months, your Grace, and she's been there six weeks already."
"Meldart Lodge?"
"Regent's Park, your Grace."
"I know it, Ferdinand. A very quiet, rural situation."
"Rather remote, your Grace." Ferdinand liked the centres of life, a taste which may have accounted for a certain emphasis which he laid on the word "remote."
"Yes, Ferdinand, rather—er—remote. Well, go there." The Duke got into his brougham and seated himself so that the revolver with the ivory butt, which rested in his hip-pocket, might cause him no inconvenience.
They reached Meldart Lodge—a house with which the Duke was well acquainted—at twenty-five minutes to nine.
"You needn't come back, Ferdinand. I'll find my own way home. Good night," said the Duke.