"
Vimont sees gold ahead.
By eight o'clock, ferret eyes are watching the Santos mansion, the
home of discreet elegance.
A stunning toilet is made by Joseph, in the vain hope of impressing
the madame. He will face this Lucrezia Borgia "in his raiment
of price." He has a dim idea, that splendid garb will cover his
business-like manner of coming to "first principles."
A happy man is he at his well-ordered dejeuner, for though Joe is
no De Rohan or Montmorency, yet he eats like a lord and drinks like
a prince of the blood. He is the "first of his family"--a golden
fact.
He revenges himself daily for the volunteer cuisine of the American
River. Often has he laughed over haughty Valois' iron-clad bread,
his own flinty beans, the slabs of pork, cooked as a burnt offering
by slow combustion. Only one audacious Yankee in the camp ever
attempted a pie. That was a day of crucial experiment, a time of
bright hopes, a period of sad failure.
Vimont reports at noon. A visit from Villa Rocca of a half-hour.
Sauntering up the Elysees, after his departure, the count, shadowed
carefully, strolled to his club. He seemed to know nothing. The
waxen mask of Italian smoothness fits him like a glove. He hums a
pleasant tune as he strolls in.
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