The channel breeze and the scent of the clover sobered me up.  My pity went out to Anitchkoff and then I remembered that I had seen Fouquart at the Casino.  It seemed too good to be true.  Here at Dieppe were both this enigmatic Marquesa and the prime repository of all authentic scandal of our times.  For the old dandy Fouquart had lived not wisely but too well through three generations of cosmopolitan gallantry.  Had the censorship and his literary parts permitted, he could have written a chronicle of famous ladies that would put the Sieur de Brantome’s modest attempt to shame.  I found him among the rabble, moodily playing the little horses for five-franc pieces, but at the mention of the Marquesa del Puente he kindled.

“A grand woman,” he said emphatically, as he dragged me to a safe corner, “a true model to the anemic and neurotic sex of the day.”  When asked to specify he told me how the energy and passion of twenty generations of robber noblefolk had flowered in her.  Scruples or fears she had never known.  From childhood attached to the Carlist cause, she had become the soul of that movement in the Pyrenees.  It was she who haggled with British armourers, traced routes, planned commissariats, and most of all drew from far and near soldiers of fortune to captain a hopeless cause.  In such recruiting, Fouquart implied, her loyalty had not flinched at the most personal tests.  What seemed to mystify Fouquart was that none of these whilom champions ever attained the grace of forgetfulness.  Every year many of these tottering old gentlemen still reported at Castle del Puente, and there she held court as of old.  He himself, although their relations had been not military but civil, occasionally made so idle a pilgrimage.  “To the shrine of our Lady of the crimson teagown,” I ventured.  “You too, mon vieux!” he chuckled with ironical congratulations.  Ignoring the impertinence, I interposed the name of Mantovani.  “Our respected colleague,” Fouquart exclaimed delightedly.  Before Mantovani fuddled his head about pictures he had been a good blade, taking anyone’s pay.  For ten years and through half as many little wars he had been the Marquesa’s titular chief of staff.  Her husband?  Well, her husband was a good Carlist—­and a true philosopher.  As I tore myself away from the impending flow of scandal, Fouquart murmured regretfully.  “Must you go?  It is a pity.  We have only begun, a demain.”  But we had really ended, for the next morning, shaking off a nightmare of a red-robed Lilith who tried to sell me a questionable Zeuxis, I took the early steamer.  Of the Marquesa del Puente, whom I believe to be still at her castle, I have seen or heard nothing since.

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