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Updated: May 24, 2025
The Spaniard idly tossed over the scrap of paper upon which he had stamped a half-dozen of Louis Delgado's crests from the die of the Comptessa Astaride's ring. The Consul took the fragment of paper with the manner of one forced by politeness to assume an interest in trivialities which bore him.
"Is Louis ostensibly a friend of the throne?" demanded the American. "Professedly, he is, Señor. He will write his felicitations when the marriage and the crowning occur he will even send suitable gifts, but he will remain at his café here with his absinthe, or in Paris near the fair Comptessa Astaride, whom he adores, unless, of course, he goes to touch the match."
Perhaps the incurious glance of the American made itself felt, for as she threw down a fresh louis d'or, she looked up and their eyes met. For an instant her expression was almost that of one who stifles an impulse to recognize another. Possibly, thought Benton, she had mistaken him for someone else. "Mon dieu," whispered a voice in French, "the Comptessa d'Astaride is charming this evening."
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