Chapter XIII

That evening a servant handed him a letter.

'A footman has brought it from Granjolaye, and is waiting for an answer.'

The letter ran thus:--

'Monsieur:

'I am directed by Her Majesty the Queen Hélène to request
the pleasure of your company at the Château de Granjolaye
to-morrow at eleven. Her Majesty desires me to add that she
has only to-day learned of your presence in the country.

'Agréez, Monsieur, l'assurance de mes sentiments distingués,

'CTSSSE. DE WOLFENBACH.'

'Oh, this is staggering,' cried Paul. 'What to do?' He walked backwards and forwards, pondering his reply. 'I believe the only excuse that will pass with Royalty is illness or death. Shall I send word that I died suddenly this morning? Ah, well, here goes for a thumping lie.'

And he wrote: 'Madame, I am unspeakably honoured by her Majesty's command, and in despair that the state of my health makes it impossible for me to obey it. I am confined to my bed by a severe attack of bronchitis. Pray express to her Majesty my most respectful thanks as well as my profound regret. I shall hope to be able to leave my room at the week's end, when, if her Majesty can be prevailed upon again to accord me an audience, I shall be infinitely grateful.'

'There!' he muttered. 'I have perjured my soul for you, and made myself appear ridiculous into the bargain. _Bronchitis_! But--_à demain_! Good--good Lord! if she shouldn't come?'