'M. Beaucaire--'" Here the young man sprang
to his feet, caught up the black wig, clapped into it a dice-box
from the table, and hurled it violently through the open door. "'M.
Beaucaire' shall be choke' with his own dice-box. Who is the Phoenix to
remain? What advantage have I not over other men of rank who are merely
born to it? I may choose my own. No! Choose for me, monsieur. Shall I
be chevalier, comte, vicomte, marquis, what? None. Out of compliment to
monsieur can I wish to be anything he is not? No, no! I shall be M.
le Duc, M. le Duc de--de Chateaurien. Ha, ha! You see? You are my
confrere."
M. Beaucaire trod a dainty step or two, waving his hand politely to the
Duke, as though in invitation to join the celebration of his rank.
The Englishman watched, his eye still and harsh, already gathering in
craftiness. Beaucaire stopped suddenly. "But how I forget my age! I am
twenty-three," he said, with a sigh. "I rejoice too much to be of the
quality. It has been too great for me, and I had always belief' myself
free of such ambition. I thought it was enough to behol' the opera
without wishing to sing; but no, England have teach' me I have those
vulgar desire'. Monsieur, I am goin' tell you a secret: the ladies of
your country are very diff'runt than ours. One may adore the demoiselle,
one must worship the lady of England. Our ladies have the--it is the
beauty of youth; yours remain comely at thirty.
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