“The Duchesse de la Rochemartel, parbleu! and that’s my sister; and that’s my aunt, Princess de Chevagné-Bauffremont! She’s the ‘patronne’ of that chic equipage. She’s a millionaire, my aunt Chevagné!”
“Well, I never! What’s your name, then?”
“Oh, my name! Hang it—let me see! Well—Gontran-Xavier—François—Marie—Joseph d’Amaury—Brissac de Roncesvaulx de la Rochemartel-Boisségur, at your service!”
“Quite correct!” said Dodor; “l’enfant dit vrai!”
“Well—I—never! And what’s your name, Dodor?”
“Oh! I’m only a humble individual, and answer to the one-horse name of Théodore Rigolot de Lafarce. But Zouzou’s an awful swell, you know—his brother’s the Duke!”
Little Billee was no snob. But he was a respectably brought-up young Briton of the higher middle class, and these revelations, which he co
