The servant hesitated.

“I don’t think, Monsieur le Vicomte,” he said, “that Madame has any Seltzer-water in the house; but ...”

“Confound you!—­you never have anything in the house at the moment one wants it,” interrupted the gentleman, irritably.

“I can send for some, if Monsieur le Vicomte desires it.”

“Send for it, then; and remember, when I next ask for it, let there be some at hand.”

“Yes, Monsieur le Vicomte.”

“And—­Henri!”

“Yes, Monsieur le Vicomte.”

“Bid them be quick.  I hate to be kept waiting!”

The servant murmured his usual “Yes, Monsieur le Vicomte,” and disappeared; but with a look of such subdued dislike and impatience in his face, as would scarcely have flattered Monsieur le Vicomte had he chanced to surprise it.

In the meantime the dog had never ceased growling; whilst I, in default of something better to do, turned over the leaves of an album, and took advantage of a neighboring mirror to scrutinize the outward appearance of this authoritative occupant of Madame de Courcelles’ drawing-room.

He was a small, pallid, slender man of about thirty-five or seven years of age, with delicate, effeminate features, and hair thickly sprinkled with gray.  His fingers, white and taper as a woman’s, were covered with rings.  His dress was careless, but that of a gentleman.  Glancing at him even thus furtively, I could not help observing the worn lines about his temples, the mingled languor and irritability of his every gesture; the restless suspicion of his eye; the hard curves about his handsome mouth.

“Mille tonnerres!” said he, between his teeth “come out, Bijou—­come out, I say!”

The dog came out unwillingly, and changed the growl to a little whine of apprehension.  His master immediately dealt him a smart kick that sent him crouching to the farther corner of the room, where he hid himself under a chair.

“I’ll teach you to make that noise,” muttered he, as he drew his chair closer to the fire, and bent over it, shiveringly.  “A yelping brute, that would be all the better for hanging.”

Having sat thus for a few moments, he seemed to grow restless again, and, pushing back his chair, rose, looked out of the window, took a turn or two across the room, and paused at length to take a book from one of the side-tables.  As he did this, our eyes met in the looking-glass; whereupon he turned hastily back to the window, and stood there whistling till it occurred to him to ring the bell again.

“Monsieur rang?” said the footman, once more making his appearance at the door.

“Mort de ma vie! yes.  The Seltzer-water.”

“I have sent for it, Monsieur le Vicomte.”

“And it is not yet come?”

“Not yet, Monsieur le Vicomte.”

He muttered something to himself, and dropped back into the chair before the fire.