high up on the brow of a hill, the historic château of the Savergne family, from time immemorial the most distinguished in the south of France, was an imposing pile of granite with its turrets and towers and oddly shaped medieval windows. And not less imposing were the broad, well-kept, and, now, highly remunerative acres of the domain that stretched out around and below it.
Far different had been the case some seven or eight years before. Then the estate, château and all, had been mortgaged to the last cent, and there was barely enough to provide a meager living for the elderly Prince De Savergne, his sister, the Duchesse De St. Maur, and her son, Comte Victor De Savergne, who were the only surviving members of the family. Then, as at the wave of a fairy's wand, the transformation took place. Comte Victor went to America, on the usual errand of penniless European aristocrats, and Dame Fortune was propitious. He met there a Miss Nancy Baxter, the youthful and charming daughter of Ira J. Baxter, a multimillionaire.
Miss Nancy had all the romance and enthusiasm of extreme youth, and was easily captivated by the good looks and really irreproachable manners of the count. The young man's suit was vastly aided by Nancy's mother, who was dazzled by the luster of his coronet, and whose matronly bosom swelled with pride at the thought of being able to allude to “my daughter, Madame La Comtesse De Savergne.”
And so they were married; and Nancy, fresh, unspoiled, full of roseate visions of the future, returned with her husband to take up her residence in France, and to rehabilitate the fallen fortunes of the great family. This latter was done even to the satisfaction of the critical and exacting prince, for the dowry presented to Ira J. Baxter's only child had been almost royal in its magnificence. The château was restored to its former glory, and the impoverished acres made to blossom luxuriantly.
All this was most gratifying to the haughty heart of the Prince De Savergne, head of the illustrious house, and yet there was a fly in the amber. The prince's thin lips were drawn into an ominous straight line, and his shaggy brows contracted in a frown above his close-set, beady black eyes as he paced restlessly up and down the terrace of his ancestral home, reviewing the situation. Oh, the absurdity of American ideas, the irritating qualities of the American temperament! What more could Nancy Baxter have expected? Was she not one of the greatest ladies of France, the mother of a boy who was the heir to all these high distinctions? And yet, because Victor, like all men of his age and station, had his little affairs of love, she needs must rise in revolt and protest in a scandalized fashion. Good heavens, was she herself not as free as air? What right had she then to complain, so long as Victor conducted himself in a prudent manner and there was no open scandal? Not for a moment would the prince himself have countenanced the latter; there must be no smudge on the family scutcheon. But so long as Victor's flirtations, if you will, were conducted in a decorous manner, and strictly sub rosa, at least so far as the general public was concerned, he was acting thoroughly within his right. This had been the code of the family for generations, and now this foreigner, with her absurdly primitive, vulgar ideas as to her rights as a wife, must needs step in, and threaten, so to speak, to throw all the fat in the fire. It was aggravating in the extreme.
But, after all, was not he, the head of the family and the arbiter of its fate, capable of coping with the situation? Yes, his niece-in-law should be taught her position and her duties in that state of life into which she had married; and this desirable consummation should be attained, even if, in the end, he had to resort to extreme measures. At this thought the prince's face cleared as if by magic, and a slow, sardonic smile, born of the certainty of ultimate triumph, wreathed his pale lips.
Suddenly his attention was diverted by the palpitating whir of an automobile, which in a moment or two died away, and was succeeded by the confused murmur of excited voices.
Prince De Savergne advanced to the edge of the low stone parapet, which encircled the terrace, and, bending forward, looked over. Halfway up the winding, picturesque avenue which led to the heights upon which the château was enthroned, a machine had evidently broken down under the difficulties of the ascent. About this were gathered three people—two men and a woman. One of the men was undoubtedly the chauffeur, forced to listen to the objurgations and reproaches of his employers.