And this letter, like his sword, his Order of the Cincinnati, his commissions and the miniature, has been the heritage of the eldest son.  In his soldier days his nearest comrade had been Armand, Marquis de la Rouerie, and for him his first-born was christened; and hence my own queer name—­for an American:  Armand Dalberg.

There was one of the traditions of our House that had been scrupulously honored:  there was always a Dalberg on the rolls of the Army; though not always was it the head of the family, as in my case.  For the rest, we buried our royal descent.  And though it was, naturally, well known to my great-grandsire’s friends and neighbors, yet, in the succeeding generations, it has been forgotten and never had I heard it referred to by a stranger.

Therefore, I was surprised and a trifle annoyed at Courtney’s discovery.  Of course, it was possible that he had been attracted only by my physical resemblance to the Third Henry and was not aware of the relationship; but this was absurdly unlikely, Courtney was not one to stop at half a truth and Dalberg was no common name.  Doubtless the picture had first put him on the track and after that the rest was easy.  What he did not know, however, but had been manoeuvring to discover, was how far I was known at the Court of Valeria.  Well, he was welcome to what he had got.

Now, as a matter of fact, it was quite likely that the Dalbergs of Dornlitz had totally forgotten the Dalbergs of America.  Since Frederick’s minister had rumbled away from that mansion on the Chesapeake, a century and more ago, there had been no word passed between us.  Why should there be?  We had been disinherited and banished.  They had had their offer of reinstatement courteously refused.  We were quits.

I think I was the first of the family to set foot within Valeria since Hugo left it.  Ten years ago, during a summer’s idling in Europe, I had been seized with the desire to see the land of my people.  It was a breaking of our most solemn canon, yet I broke it none the less.  Nor was that the only time.  However, I had the grace,—­and, possibly, the precaution,—­to change my name on such occasions.  In the Kingdom of Valeria I was that well-known American, Mr. John Smith.

I did the ordinary tourist; visited the places of interest, and put up at the regular hotels.  Occasionally, I was stared at rather impertinently by some officer of the Guards and I knew he had noted my resemblance to the national hero.  I never made any effort to be presented to His Majesty nor to establish my relationship.  I should have been much annoyed had anything led to it being discovered.

Once, in the park of the palace, I had passed the King walking with a single aide-de-camp, and his surprise was such he clean forgot to return my salute; and a glance back showed him at a stand and gazing after me.  I knew he was thinking of the portrait in the Corridor of Kings.  That was the last time I had seen my royal cousin.