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He was far handsomer, far more attractive than the host, but a young-old cynic about these goings-on. Nephew of the police prefect of Paris, he had been specially invited to forestall by reason of his presence any Governmental swooping down on Praille's wild party. Evidently he was not thinking of morals or of license, but his thoughts were far other.
'Twas whispered talk, but a chance bystander might at least have overheard the words: "... At my fete of Bel-Air make no mistake, La Fleur I rely on you. One hundred louis, the reward...." Or another scene that marked de Praille's entry into Paris, might have interested them.
The Count's demands brought to a head a resolve that had taken possession of Chevalier de Vaudrey's heart and soul. Always the picture of the sweet Norman girl he had saved from de Praille's foul clutches was in his waking thoughts, of nights he dreamed a blessed romance! He recked not of the Count's displeasure, sorrowed that he must displease his Aunt as sorely.
De Praille had now grasped her firmly by the waist and shoulders, his sensual breath was on her cheek, a last cry escaped her: "Among all these noblemen, is there not ONE MAN OF HONOR?" The despairing outcry pierced the Chevalier's shallow cynicism, touching the finer feelings that had lain dormant. He sprang to her side, dashed de Praille's arms from her exquisite form.
De Vaudrey looked up to see the tiny creature running hither and yon, asking the laughing gentlemen for help, repulsing Praille's embraces, fending off the other satyr who would drown her sorrows in fizz. If this were play-acting, it excelled the finest efforts of Adrienne Lecouvreur!
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