I am
engaged elsewhere."
"No, no, let me whisper!" He brought his lips close to my ear and
continued almost inaudibly: "You may please me. You may help a friend.
You may oblige--a king."
The last, of course, was the _ne plus ultra_ of inducement according to
the count's way of thinking, and he supposed the mere suggestion would
vanquish me. Still I pleaded my engagement. He insisted, however,
repeating in my ear:--
"Oblige a king! A real king! Not a flimsy fool of bourgeois, who makes of
himself the laughing-stock of his people, but a real king. I cannot name
him now, but you must know."
We were in a narrow passage leading to the Stone Gallery in Whitehall. He
looked about him a moment, then taking me by the arm, led me to the Stone
Gallery and thence to the garden. I wanted to stop, but he kept his grasp
on my arm, repeating now and then the word "Come" in whispers, till we
reached a lonely spot in St. James Park. There he halted, and though
there was not a living creature in sight, he brought his lips to my ear
and breathed the name, "'Sieur George Hamilton."
I tried not to show that I was startled, but the quickwitted, sharp-eyed
Frenchman read me as though I were an open book, and grasping my hand,
cried out:--
"Ah, I knew you could tell me. It is to rejoice! I knew it!"
"Tell you what, count?" I asked.
"Tell me where your friend and mine is, or if you will not tell me, take
to him a letter.
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