“And the duel at St. Leon, two years ago. I knew that Don Santiago was the good friend of Monsieur the Marquis; and I knew also that there had been something very odd about that midnight meeting. Thus, when I saw you, Mademoiselle, all so lovely in the sunset, I added the two and the two by intuition. Very simple, n’est-ce pas?

“And this Santiago,” continued the old man, “wore on the pommel of his sword a peacock; as also did Monsieur the Marquis on that sword at his château. None of which really proved anything; however, I began to think. Thus, it was but a matter of having you watched, Mademoiselle, until things happened.

“And while you watched, mon vieux, I prowled around, and found the plans of Vauban’s fortifications and engineering works and saw that he had not built the passage leading to St. Leon. And as for last night, I attended the preliminary rites, having, as you so nicely put it, beaned one of the worshipers and assumed his costume.”

“What the devil! You joined in their ceremonies?”

“Yes. It was I who spoke to you; but you did not take the tumble, so you missed some rare sport. I had but to put myself into the case which had contained the embalmed body of my ancient enemy, Santiago. And thus, they carried me into position at the altar. Then, at the crucial moment, I kicked off the cover, and fired a press photographer’s flashlight gun. Dazzled by that fearful light, they could see nothing. As for me, I closed my eyes as I fired, and then, after the flash …”

He affectionately caressed the blackjack.

“And with this wonderful little implement, I worked them over, as you might say it, while they still blinked and rubbed their eyes, utterly blinded by that sudden flare.”

“He really was going to kill me?” queried the queen of Lachepaillet, who had scarcely grasped the entire sequence of events, and their significance.

“Exactly that, chère petite. In his way, he loved you, for yourself, and for the sake of his departed sweetheart; and therefore, he was to sacrifice you, and embalm you, and set you up in state, in the mummy case of a princess, thus performing the supreme penance, making his peace with the Lord Peacock, and with Santiago alike. An artistic soul, Monsieur the Marquis! He is leaving for Spain … unless unhappily I struck him too hard! But he will not annoy you again.”

“These uncanny resemblances, Monsieur d’Artois … it is all so fantastic,” suggested Lili. “I resemble his former mistress, and I resemble a mummy. Am I then a mere shadow?”