"You recollect I told you I would probably entrust you with a commission to the Queen? Are you ready to undertake it?"

"Perfectly."

"You will have to go back to Paris; but that is your way. When can you start?"

It was not wise to think of a return to Paris; but I had gone too far to shrink back now, and besides, I was beginning to believe again in my star. So I gulped down my fears, and put a bold front on the matter, saying:

"As soon as I can get a horse, monsieur."

"Ho!" And we looked at each other steadily. A faint smile bent his iron lips, and, muttering something in his beard, he took up a pen, scratched a few lines, and handed me the paper. I glanced at it, and saw it was an order to give me any horse I liked from his stable. I began to thank him; but he stopped me, saying:

"Show the order to Sarlaboux; and if you take my advice you will choose Lizette, the dun mare. She will well replace the one you have—lost."

"I well know how to value such a gift, monsieur."

"Here there is a packet for the Queen; but this is not your task. I am going to entrust you with a prisoner, whom you will place in the Queen's hands."

"Monsieur," I began; but he read my thoughts ere I had spoken them.

"Oh, it is no catch-poll's business; I have others to do that. This lady is only a nominal prisoner——"

"It's a woman, then?" And my thoughts went back to mademoiselle. Could Sarlaboux have been mistaken?

"Yes; and remember that her life depends upon her reaching the Queen, though she does not believe it."

"May I ask this lady's name?"

"Mademoiselle de Paradis, the greatest heiress in Poitou, but a Huguenot to her little finger-tips."

"In that case, monsieur, the Queen's mantle of protection is likely to be a shroud."

"You do not understand," he snapped. "Mademoiselle, or rather her lands, have attracted the attention of Diane de Poitiers and her brood of swallows. The Queen would give her right hand to thwart the mistress in this, and she, and only she, can save her. Montpensier will be here in a fortnight, and I shall be gone. You know, I think, what that means. I give you my word of honour, monsieur, that this lady's life is on a hair. Why I should trouble about it I don't know; but the Queen has commanded me in this, and Jean de Paradis, her father, was my old friend, and for his sake I would save his child. But you seem to be sniffing the air over this, M. Broussel——"

"I was, monsieur! But now I accept the task."

"Very well. You will arrange, then, to start at three. I shall see that mademoiselle is ready. You will have four good swords with you; and, remember, she is your prisoner, rescue or no rescue."

I bowed, and was turning to go, when he stopped me.

"A word more! Trust not a soul, King's man or Huguenot—do not even trust her. It is said that she is the promised wife of De Ganache. If that story is true I promise you trouble, but you have yourself to thank for it." And he rose and accompanied me to his door. It was the only allusion he made to what had happened on the tower, and never again did he refer to it.

I had more than guessed who my prisoner was, though, of course, I was not sure, and the mention of De Ganache in connection with her had struck me like a blow. But it was hardly the time to think of matters like this, and putting it aside with a firm hand I hurried to my quarters, where to my annoyance I found the Capuchin Grigolet. I guessed his needs, and a brace of crowns to further the conversion of the Jewess rid me of the rascal. Then bidding Pierrebon be ready to start in a couple of hours I went in search of Sarlaboux.

I found that worthy in the archway of the main gate playing at cards with Menorval.

"Ogier beats you." And Menorval put down the knave of spades.

"Out upon the knave! Here is Pallas." And Sarlaboux covered the knave with the queen.

"And David, the king, takes the game," laughed Menorval as he picked up the stakes and began to shuffle once more.

With an apology for interrupting them I showed Sarlaboux my order, whereupon, with many exclamations at my good luck, he led the way to the stable, followed by Menorval and myself.

"Morbleu!" grumbled Menorval, "if this is the pay that royal messengers get, away with my gilt spurs, and give me the wings of Mercury to my heels."

And so, laughing, we reached the stables, where Sarlaboux bid me take my choice, his face falling a little when he saw me halt before the dun mare. From her looks I saw she was likely to carry me well; and then, there was Montluc's own recommendation.

"I will take Lizette," I said.

"Then you take the best horse in all Poitou." And Menorval then and there offered me a hundred crowns for her, which, needless to say, I refused.

At the appointed time, accompanied by Pierrebon, I rode into the courtyard of the priory, and found there the men whom Montluc had promised me. They had with them a sumpter horse, whilst a third, which was evidently intended for my prisoner, was held by a groom. I had some little time to wait, which I passed in no enviable frame of mind. Dismounting, I looked carefully at the saddlery of my party, and then paced up and down the flagged court in converse with Sarlaboux, who must have found me somewhat dull, for he rallied me, offering, if I liked not the task of taking a pretty woman all the way to Paris, to take my place, as he had need of a wife and a dowry to rebuild his house. It was in the midst of one of his sallies that the door opened, and Montluc appeared on the steps, and by his side—Diane. There was not a doubt of it; and for a moment I became hot and cold all over, but, collecting myself, advanced to meet them. As I came forward I saw mademoiselle start slightly, make a half step towards me, and draw back, and then Montluc said:

"This gentleman, mademoiselle, will be your escort to Paris."

I bowed, saying nothing, but she held out her hand.

"Monsieur, I had hoped you would have known me."

I confess I was tongue-tied, and could only mutter something, and Montluc glanced from the one to the other of us.

"Then you are already acquainted?" he asked in surprise.

"Mademoiselle is the lady to whom, as I have mentioned to you, monsieur, I was enabled to render a slight service——"

"That is what he calls saving my life, Monsieur de Montluc. I have at any rate to thank you for giving me a friend for my jailor. There is but one more kindness I ask of you——"

"And that is——?"

"Let this gentleman escort me to Chatellerault. I do not want to go to Paris."

Montluc held up his hand. "That is the old cry, mademoiselle. It is impossible! The Queen's orders are final."

"And you call yourself my dead father's friend?"

Montluc smiled grimly. "I saved his life at Pavia. That was thirty-three years ago. But that has nothing to do with the matter. You cannot stay here. You cannot stay at Chatellerault. You must go to Paris, and it is growing late."

She flushed all over, but again returned to her point.

"You have time after time told me I am not a prisoner. Why, then——"

"Because Chatellerault no longer contains your friends, and Monsieur de Randan now commands there."

She turned as white now as she had been red before, and a bitter pang of jealousy went through me as I thought for whom all this feeling was; but she brought herself together and faced Montluc.

"Very well, monsieur. I understand your friendship and your kindness now. I tell you plainly that I will escape at the first opportunity. I shall never reach Paris."

"That is M. Broussel's affair; and, mademoiselle, the marches are long in Poitou."

She gave him no answer, but, as it were, resigning herself to the present, went up to her horse, accepting only the assistance of the groom to mount.

When all was ready Montluc called me aside, and we stood together for a moment on the wide steps.

"Mordieu!" he muttered as he glanced at mademoiselle, "I do not envy your task. Upon my soul, I am glad that Jean de Paradis won her mother's hand and not I!" And then in an altered manner:

"I have your word to do all that man can for her safety?"

"I have said so, monsieur."

There was a little silence, and he stretched out a lean hand.

"Monsieur, forget not: there is room for you in Italy; it would gladden me to see the golden cock of Orrain once more upon the field. And now go."



CHAPTER XV

MY PRISONER

We left Poitiers by the Porte de Rochereuil, as I had no mind to be shut within the angle between the Clain and the Vienne, whence escape would be a difficult matter if trouble arose. Whilst crossing the bridge my eyes fell on a rock on the opposite bank of the river which commanded the faubourg, and even held in check the old fortress of Jean de Berri, which guarded the junction of the Clain and Boivre on our left. I made a mental note of this, and years after I was to use this knowledge to some purpose when I stood by Coligny's side before Poitiers.

I had sent forward two of my men, with instructions to make arrangements for our accommodation for the night at Les Barres. I deemed it inadvisable to go on to Chatellerault, and Les Barres was a convenient halting-place, as there was no moon now, and there could be little travelling after sundown. Moreover, I wished to spare my charge as much as possible.

For these reasons we travelled at an easy pace, mademoiselle riding by herself a few yards ahead, for I confess that after a few civil words had passed between us I had taken the opportunity to fall back. This I did under pretence of giving instructions to Pierrebon, though I never spoke a word to him. Frankly, I was in a state that made me bad company, and I desired to be alone. The face of De Ganache seemed ever to be between me and Diane, and I morosely kept to myself, envying the lot of Adam, who was the only man who never had a rival, torturing myself, as is the custom with lovers, with a thousand suspicions, and cursing myself for a fool in having undertaken this task. Nevertheless, I am sure, such is the frailty of man, that were it to be all over again I would do in this matter all I had done before.

In fact, I was grasping the truth of what I had often laughed at—that there is none so skilled in making dragons out of beetles as the man who is in love and knows not if he is winning or losing.

We kept to the left bank of the Clain, taking a track that led over a sad and barren plain, once the garden of France. Except immediately around the city and the few hamlets we passed there was scarce a crop to be seen, and but for an abandoned vineyard, or here and there a solitary tree, brooding like a mourner over the dead, all was a dreary waste. There was little or no sign of life on this sullen and melancholy landscape. Occasionally we met a peasant making his way to some half-ruined hamlet, and driving before him a flock of geese with the aid of a long stick, to one end of which he had tied a plume of rags. At sight of us he, as a rule, left his birds to take care of themselves, and vanished like a rabbit into one of the ravines that cross and recross the plain in a network. And this was the King's peace in Poitou!

My troopers rode stolidly on, taking turns with the led horse, and now and again exchanging a word with each other. Pierrebon followed behind them, whistling the "Rappel d'Aunis." I kept to myself, as I have said, full of sombre thoughts, but watching mademoiselle as she rode about twenty paces or so in front of me. She never turned her head, but I observed that she was scanning the country on either side carefully.

Beyond Chasseneuil is a wide plain, and the track here meets the road to Thouars. I was looking at the slender spire of Miribeau, which stood out against the rising ground that stretched towards Lencloitre and beyond, when I was startled by the sudden galloping of a horse. It was mademoiselle, who had turned sharply to the left, and was urging her horse at full speed towards Miribeau. We reined up amidst exclamations from the men; and the fugitive, who had got a fair distance off by this, looked back and laughed at us. It was a brave attempt at escape, and she evidently felt sure of her horse; but I had a mind to try the mettle of Montluc's gift to me, and so I told the men to go on quietly, and then, turning Lizette, followed Diane at an easy canter. As I did so, and felt the power of the long, swinging stride beneath me I smiled to myself whilst I watched the little Norman my charge rode stretching himself like a greyhound. Once more Diane looked back; and then I accepted the challenge, and gave the dun a free rein.

The country here was a wide horseshoe-shaped plain, fringed with a network of ravines, and rising gently towards Lencloitre. It was for the most part barren, but at intervals there were long brown and green patches of broom, the yellow tufts swaying in the breeze. Here and there the late rain had left pools of water, flashing like mirrors in the sunlight; and away to the north-west, in dark green and grey against the sky, stretched the undulating lands of higher Poitou. Far in front of me mademoiselle rode, the white feathers in her hat fluttering like a bird, and little puffs of dust rising beneath her horse's hoofs. For a moment I thought she had made good her word to Montluc—but for a moment only. Sarlaboux was right when he said I had chosen the best horse in Poitou. She was more than that—she was one of the best horses in France, and only once was she ever beaten, but it was not on this occasion. As she raced along the green of the broom, the flashing lights on the pools, and the white plain, all seemed to mingle in a grey haze. Soon I could make out more than a white plume and a cloud of dust before me. Yard by yard we crept up; and then mademoiselle heard the beat of following hoofs, and called to her horse, and the brave beast replied gallantly. But there was little use. He was no match for the big dun mare, and at last there was one effort more, and I was by Diane's side.

"This is not the road, mademoiselle!" I cried; but for answer she struck her beast with her whip, and then I laughed cheerfully, and our glances met. It was enough, and in a few yards she had reined up, and the little horse she rode, still full of fire, was pawing the earth, and switching his foam-flecked sides with his tail, whilst Diane was looking at me with tightened lip and a flush on her cheeks.

It was not for me to upbraid or to openly say that I had realised she had attempted to escape, and so I contented myself by remarking drily that the plain beyond was unsafe, and that there was better ground on the road to Les Barres.

"I presume, monsieur, it is for that reason we have been travelling like snails? Ah! it is fine there." And she waved her hand in the direction of Miribeau as she asked: "Why not go back to your men, Monsieur Broussel, and leave me an hour of freedom?"

"You are hard on your escort, mademoiselle," I smiled; "and besides, I took your look back as a challenge for a race. 'Tis a good little horse you ride."

"It belongs to M. de Ganache," she answered, and I bit my lip. It seemed as if I could never be free of De Ganache; but, steadying myself, I pointed to our men, filing along the white track like ants in the distance.

"It is fair going, as we know, mademoiselle, back to the road. What say you to a gallop there?"

She accepted the check she had received with a good grace, and turning her horse raced back with the recklessness of youth. On this occasion I took care that Lizette should not be first, and when we rejoined our party Diane pointed at the mare with her whip as she laughed, for she had recovered her temper.

"I see now I should not have stopped when I did. Another mile and that big, dust-coloured thing would have been yards and yards behind; would she not, Rollo?" And she bent forward and caressed the Norman's sleek neck. I did not contradict her statement, but contented myself by saying humbly that there could be no comparison between the two horses.

"I am glad you realise that, monsieur; and we will have another race—soon, I hope."

"In that case, mademoiselle, I will not stake anything, for I am certain which horse will win." And with these words I was dropping back once more to my old place when she stayed me, asking why I did not ride by her side.

"I feared to intrude, mademoiselle; it is no longer the furrier's niece I escort."

She turned red. "Ah, monsieur, I am ashamed of my deceit; but there are things I cannot explain now that forced me to play a part."

"Let the matter rest, mademoiselle."

"I know I must have seemed ungrateful when I left you as I did; but believe me, monsieur, I can never forget the brave man who risked his life for me." And she held out her gloved hand, allowing it to rest in mine for a moment ere she withdrew it gently.

"I did what anyone else would have done. Perhaps, however, you would like to hear that I have made such arrangements as could be made for your dead servant."

"It is like you, monsieur, to remember that." And then there was a silence. After a little she asked almost timidly:

"Monsieur, amongst the prisoners taken by M. de Montluc was the Vicomte de Ganache. I have not been able to hear news of him, and I would give much to know——"

It was ever thus: De Ganache was ever first; and I answered, without letting her complete her speech:

"M. de Ganache is no longer a prisoner; he was freed by Montluc this morning."

"Freed! Are you sure?"

"Sure as I ride here. I saw him leave Poitiers in safety."

"It is almost incredible. And yet——"

"It is true, mademoiselle. M. de Ganache is known to me, and I had speech with him before he left. He is free, I assure you."

"It is, indeed, good news, monsieur." And she looked at me, her face all brightness, as she continued, with a little laugh: "M. de Montluc is, I see, more generous to men than to women."

At this juncture our speech was cut short, as from out of the ravine before us into which the road dipped there suddenly emerged one of the troopers I had sent on ahead. As the man came galloping up to us I thought at first that he bore ill tidings, but it turned out that he had ridden back to give me news of the accommodations at Les Barres.

"I have arranged, monsieur, at the sign of the Slain Leopard, where things are as good as can be expected. There is room enough, as there are no other guests but one. I have left Capus to see that everything is ready."

Thanking the man, who fell back, we pushed on at the trot, for it was now approaching sunset. Whilst passing La Tricherie I halted for a moment to show mademoiselle the ruins of Baudimont, and pointed out to her, in the distance on our right, the field of Moussaisla-Bataille, where Charles the Hammer broke the Saracen advance for ever.

We were now but a little distance from Les Barres, and could already see the roofs of the village and the square tower of the church, all alight with the sunset. As we came closer we heard the melancholy chimes of the couvre feu, followed by the barking of dogs, and a few minutes later we reached the hostel.

Les Barres itself was an oasis in the desert around us. It lay nestling amidst groves of walnuts, and a singular chance had spared it from the evils around. As for the hostel itself, that lay far back in a trim garden, and the quaint signboard, whereon was pictured a dead leopard on a blue field—a memory of the last days of the hundred years' war—swung triumphantly between two poles near the gate.

As we filed in my charge went into feminine raptures over the beauty of the garden, with its wealth of roses; and, indeed, it was such a spot as might have been chosen for a lovers' retreat. The interior of the inn corresponded with its old-world exterior; and the host, being forewarned, had supper in readiness, and preparations made for mademoiselle's comfort. I already had some experience of my fair charge's capacity and resource, and I was determined, for her sake, to carry out my promise to Montluc. Therefore, when mademoiselle's baggage had been carried to her chamber and she herself had retired for a space, I took the opportunity to warn my men to keep on the alert. I reminded them that their reward would be in proportion to their services; but they were old soldiers, who knew their duty, and nothing more need be said of this. Pierrebon I told off specially to keep an eye on the other guest—whom we had not seen—and then took a general survey of the house as far as it was possible. With the exception of the offices and one or two rooms, the greater portion of the lower floor consisted of one large room, half across the middle of which a stairway led to the upper floor. It seemed to me the only passage above, and whilst I was looking at it, the landlord happening to pass, I asked if this were so, and he replied: "Yes."

"You could be very easily cut off, then."

He shrugged his lean shoulders. "As easily as if we had ten ways, monsieur."

"You are lucky to have escaped so far."

"Oh, monsieur, we are poor people, and not worth pillaging, and the Vicomte has always been good to us."

"The Vicomte?"

"Yes, monsieur—the Vicomte de Ganache. He is Seigneur of Les Barres."

"I begin to understand; but I suppose you have heard that things have gone hard against M. de Ganache?"

He wrung his hands, and with a word of encouragement to him I changed the subject, and asked about the other guest. The landlord, however, professed utter ignorance of him.

"He came this morning, monsieur, and, as far as I know, goes to-morrow. He is alone, and seems poorly provided with money—and this is all I know."

There was nothing further to be done, though I had learned some things of value. As the night was warm I stepped out into the garden. It was dark, and the stars were out. High above me a light was burning faintly in a dormer window, on one side of which there was a wooden gallery overlooking the garden, and on this two figures were standing. It was too dark to see; but one was a woman, I was sure, and I was sure, too, it was mademoiselle.

For a moment I was tempted to creep beneath the balcony and—— But I put the thought aside, with a curse at myself, and turning went brooding down the garden, wondering how all this would end for me. Enough! I would do my duty—place her in the Queen's hands—and then see what Italy could do for Orrain.

A step on the gravel path, and a dark figure came face to face with me. It was Capus, the oldest and most trusty of my troopers.

"I take the first watch, monsieur," he whispered, and passed on.

Up and down I paced for a little, and at last I heard mademoiselle's voice. She had come down, and I went back into the house.



CHAPTER XVI

THE TWELVE ROSE PETALS

Whether it were the effect of the candlelight, or whether it were due to the exertion of the day, I know not, but it seemed to me as I entered the room that mademoiselle looked pale and worn, and there was a reserve and constraint in her manner that had been absent before. I made some vapid remark about the warmth of the weather, hoping it had not added to her fatigue, to which she answered that she was tired, but that a night's rest would, doubtless, see her as well as ever by morning. The landlord at this moment announcing supper as served we went to table. At first my companion played with her food, but, yielding to my pressure, began to eat, and in a little the colour came back to her cheeks, the brightness returned to her eyes, and the coldness in her manner wore off. The landlord himself personally attended to us, and I observed that, whilst his manner towards mademoiselle was deferential and respectful in the extreme, his tone towards me was that of sulky obedience. This was so different from my first reception that, with my suspicions already aroused, it was impossible for me not to see it, and so I took the chance of a shot in the dark, saying:

"We have seen nothing of our fellow-guest, mademoiselle. It seems that, like the mole, he dislikes light. I have been thinking that, perhaps, it would be well to unearth him."

Whilst saying this I kept my eyes on an ornament on the table, but as I finished I glanced up swiftly. The landlord was at the time engaged in handing some fruit to mademoiselle, but at my remark he almost dropped the plate, and mademoiselle said, with a laugh: "You will have to arrest everyone we meet on the road, monsieur, if your suspicions are aroused so easily." Nevertheless, I was certain that a glance of understanding had passed between her and the landlord, and I felt sure that it would be well to pay a little attention to the retiring stranger.

As I expected, the landlord shortly after retired, leaving us alone. The room we were in was long and low, with a window opening into the garden. Mademoiselle was sitting facing this window, which lay open because of the warmth of the night, whilst my back was turned towards it. I said something about the landlord's manner, and mademoiselle replied:

"He is of lower Poitou, monsieur. Men there are like their country—sullen and sad." And then she stopped suddenly, her eyes fixed on the window, whilst her colour came and went. She had not the gift that cynics assert is a special attribute of the sex, and was a bad dissembler; and I here venture to say such women make the best of wives, even though life's passage with them may be at times a little stormy.

"Is there anything there?" I asked, making a movement as if to turn round; but she said hastily:

"No, nothing; I thought I saw a figure passing—that is all."

"One of my men, no doubt," I said carelessly. "We may rest secure to-night, for they will keep good watch."

To this she made no answer, but taking a rose from out of a vase near her began to pluck the petals in an absent manner and lay them beside her. When a woman's wits are pitted against those of a man it is well for him to disregard nothing, and, slight as this action was, I took note of it. I counted the petals as she plucked them. They were twelve in all. Then she cast the rose aside, and picked up the petals one after another, counting them aloud, and when she came to the twelfth she put them in a heap beside her plate.

"Twelve," I said. "Is that a magic number?"

"No, monsieur; but it is my lucky number." And rising she moved to the window and, sitting thereon, looked forth. The night was dark, and all the stars were out. From the open window, a pennon of light streamed out into the garden, heavy with the scent of roses. Mademoiselle took a deep breath, and then pointing to the twinkling lights above us, asked:

"Are you learned in the stars, Monsieur Broussel?"

I looked out too, for I was standing at the window, and laughed.

"No, mademoiselle; all I know is that the star I was born under has not done much for me. I remember, some years ago, when I was in Italy, an astrologer made a horoscope for me; but I have lost it."

"You do not believe in the stars, then?"

"Who can tell, mademoiselle! But a man's life is mostly of his own making, and a woman's too for the matter of that. There is an invariable law of Nature or of God. It is that the breaker pays, and sooner or later all learn this."

"Ciel! how serious you are!" And her brown eyes met mine.

"The stars should never laugh, mademoiselle."

"They cried over me when my fortune was told."

"May I ask——"

"Oh yes!—but fortune for fortune. If I tell you mine will you tell me yours?"

"Certainly."

"Well, mine was short: it was simply to beware of a church under the ground and a woman in black and white. I have never seen such a church nor ever met such a woman."

I thought of Diane of Valentinois and her favourite colours, and a sudden chill came over me. For a moment I stood silent.

"Now for yours, monsieur," she said gaily.

"Mine! Well, it was wrapped up in long names, and I never could make aught of it. As far as I remember, Aquarius, Mars, and Mercury are in the ascendant, and the face of Venus is from me. In the second house Sol is in Pisces. In the fifth Luna in Gemini, and Jupiter——"

She put her hands to her ears. "Enough, monsieur! I almost fear to look out, lest I should see a cauldron of burning sulphur, and witches dancing around it."

And as she spoke there came to us the distant echoes of hoarse laughter. I recognised the voices of the landlord and Capus, my man-at-arms.

"'Tis not Capus' business to hob-nob with the host at this hour, mademoiselle. I had better go and see that he keeps stricter watch."

With this I made a half movement to go, but she stayed me with a little gesture of command.

"Monsieur Broussel, I have a favour to ask of you; will you grant it?"

"Mademoiselle, all that is in my power I will do. What is it?"

For answer she stood up and placed a hand on my shoulder, her eyes looking straight into mine. "Monsieur, a brave man like you should not be a gaoler of women. Let me free!"

I made no reply; but as her eyes, soft and imploring, met mine all the love in my heart rose within me. For her sake no Roman constancy would have held me to any vow; but I knew that Montluc had spoken the truth, I knew the danger she was in, and that the one chance of her safety lay in her being under the Queen's protection.

"Mademoiselle!" I stammered; but she broke in on me.

"Yes! You will let me go, will you not? Monsieur, I hate the thought of Paris and its dark intrigues; and the fate of those who belong to my faith is ever with me, like a horrible dream. I dread, I fear, each hour that brings me nearer to what I know will be my death. Monsieur, as you are a gentleman, let me free. Take me to Chatillon, and leave me there with the Cardinal. Odet de Coligny, prince of the Church though he is, is of my faith. I shall be safe there—a thousand times safer than a prisoner in Paris. Oh, say you will!"

I took her hand in mine, caressing it as that of a child, and strove to explain, but she would not listen. "Say you will; do not refuse!" she repeated; and, feeling like a hangman, I blurted out that it was impossible. And then she snatched her hand from my grasp, and stood a moment, her face half averted from me. There was an awkward silence, and collecting myself I again pointed out the danger she was in, and that in Paris alone could there be safety for her. I might have spoken to stone walls; but at my words she turned, and there were angry lights in the brown eyes, and her lips were tightly set.

"I shall not trespass further on your good nature, monsieur. I feel you have cancelled the debt I owed you, and henceforth you will understand that I look upon you as my gaoler and nothing more."

I bowed, and she continued: "And further, I do not desire to have speech with you. I travel as your prisoner; and"—with a truly feminine outburst—"I shall escape—there are friends who will see to that."

I was so full of wrath at the manner in which I had been treated that I was about to answer back hotly that, friend or no friend, she would ride into Paris by my side; but I restrained myself with an effort, and with another look of anger at me mademoiselle turned, and began to ascend the stairway. I watched her as she went up, with head erect and shining eyes, and stood where I was for some little time utterly dejected and cast down. Even if I had a shadow of a chance it was gone by this. I felt like one who was condemned to execute himself. After a little I moved towards the supper-table, and sitting down there stared aimlessly before me. My eyes fell on the little heap of plucked rose leaves that had been left on the table, and I began, at first half unconsciously, to try and read the meaning of the signal, for such it was I was sure. In the light of her last words, the sting of which still remained with me, I was certain that she had not played with the rose petals idly. I began to go back. She had told Montluc she would escape at the first chance. She had made the attempt this very day, but had apparently accepted defeat. Shortly after coming to the inn there had been a decided change in her manner. Then she had grown friendly again, and finding this fail her had broken out into open defiance. I put all this with the little incident of the window, and her open statement, made in heat, that she had friends who would help her to escape—an escape that would lead her into the jaws of the wolf, if she would but understand. Nevertheless, I could make nothing of it, and so for the present gave up guessing, determining to do all I could to protect her, and to leave the rest in the hands of Fate. The landlord coming in at this moment I requested him to send Pierrebon to me, and to show me the way to my chamber. Taking up one of the candles from the table he led me across the room, and along a narrow passage, on one side of which my room was, and then, saying he would send Pierrebon, and wishing me "good-night" with a sulky civility, the man went. Shortly after I heard steps along the passage, there was a knock at my door, and Pierrebon entered. He wore his cloak thrown over his shoulder so as to conceal his left arm and hand, and I could see from the expression of his face that he had news of some kind.

"What is it, Pierrebon?" I asked.

For answer he shut the door carefully, and placing his cloak on the floor put beneath it a small dark lantern, saying as he did so: "I have made free to borrow this, monsieur, as I think, perhaps, it may be needed."

"Then you have found out something?"

"I think so, monsieur." And he dropped his voice. "After your warning I set about trying to discover our stranger, but could find no trace of him. Capus and Poltrot, however, had seen him, and told me he had a horse; but there was no horse in the stables, and at first I thought that he might have gone."

"What about our horses?" I interrupted. "Does anyone watch them?"

"Yes, monsieur; we have old soldiers with us, and Poltrot and Bahuzet watch them, whilst Capus and the Hainaulter Cuyp watch the house—all four turn and turn about.

"Capus, however, was drinking with the landlord, and his watch seems lax."

"No, monsieur! The landlord was drinking with Capus, whom he had paid five gold Henris to cut all our saddlery to-night, especially the reins; the only saddlery to be spared is that of mademoiselle."

I whistled low, and Pierrebon, diving into his pocket, pulled out five gold pieces, saying: "Here is the money, monsieur, which Capus begs to inquire if he may keep."

"And five more besides, Pierrebon, and I beg his pardon for doubting him. But what about the stranger?"

"That too is known, monsieur, and I was about to tell you. Whilst the landlord was drinking with Capus I made my way to the kitchen, where my reception was chill, so I took myself out into the garden, and wandering down a pathway heard a whinny. 'Soh!' said I to myself, 'that is a nag there!' Sure enough there was, and I was about to step up to it when I heard a sound behind me, and heard someone coming up, and saw the light of a lantern. It is dark, as you know, monsieur, and I stepped back into the shadow, and lay there concealed. Presently the men—there were two of them—came up. One was the ostler, and the other the Vicomte de Ganache, to whom you, monsieur, lent your horse this morning."

"Are you sure?" I asked with a breath.

"Perfectly, monsieur. I saw the light on his face; and there was the brown horse——"

"Did they say anything?"

"Nothing of import, monsieur. M. le Vicomte, like a good soldier, was seeing to his beast. When they had attended to him they went back, I following slowly. There is a door leading into the kitchen, and they entered by this, the ostler, however, shutting the slide of his lantern, and leaving it in the angle of the wall. It was careless of him, monsieur, and it is here now." And Pierrebon smiled.

"Now, Pierrebon, think again: are you sure that nothing of import passed between the two?"

"Nothing, monsieur; they spoke of the horse—not a word about us. All that the Vicomte said, as they were leaving, was that he would make all arrangements at midnight; he means, perhaps, to start then. If so, he will need his lantern."

But I scarce heard Pierrebon's last words. The key of the rose petals had come to my hand. De Ganache had either arranged to meet, or to escape with, mademoiselle at twelve. This was the secret of it all, I was sure.



CHAPTER XVII

MADEMOISELLE DECIDES

So the rubber between De Ganache and myself had begun, and although I had been the means of saving his life this morning I was determined to put it to the last issue rather than see myself defeated in this matter by him.

Mademoiselle would at any rate find that if I were a gaoler I was one who looked well after his charge. So I gave instructions to Pierrebon to take my place in the room, and on no account to stir forth unless I called him. I further added that if anyone came to the door he should pretend to be sleeping heavily. With this I took my drawn sword in my hand and stepped softly into the passage. On reaching the room where we had supped I found it apparently deserted, the only light being from a lantern which burnt dimly on the dining-table. The shadow of the stairway leading above fell athwart the room, and as I looked cautiously around the clock in the hall beyond struck eleven. I waited patiently for any sign of movement or life; but there was none. Satisfied at last that I was alone I stepped forward, and made my way quickly but noiselessly to the stair. Beneath this there was room enough to stand, and hidden by the darkness, the overhanging stair, and the angle of the wall I was perfectly concealed. Here I determined to watch, through the night if need be. The discovery that this stairway was the only passage from above strengthened my position greatly, for unless mademoiselle were possessed of wings, and it had not come to that as yet, she would have to pass this way, and then I hoped to be able to persuade her how rash and useless her attempt was.

The minutes dragged on like hours, as they always do in affairs of this nature. I chafed at the restraint of my position, and had no intention of acting the eavesdropper longer than I could help it, but for the moment I was forced to lie in ambush. All was quiet and still, so still that some mice came out, and sought for such crumbs as they could find on the floor around the dining-table. Suddenly there came the sound of footsteps along the passage. In a flash the mice had vanished, and two men entered the room. They were the landlord and De Ganache, the latter booted and spurred and wearing the hat that was lent to him, or rather given to him, this morning. He sat down on a chair at the dining-table, and placed his hat beside him, running his fingers through the red plumes.

"Eh bien," he said, with a laugh, "Monsieur there sleeps soundly. It will be a great awakening in the morning. I should not advise you to be here, Pechaud." And with this he turned up the lantern, so that the light fell more strongly on his clear-cut face and blue eyes. He was a handsome man, and one well formed to win a woman's heart; but with all this there were the marks of a weak and irresolute nature on his countenance, and as I looked I thought to myself that here was one who, if he fell, would fall utterly.

Pechaud the landlord, who stood respectfully near De Ganache, laughed too as he heard the Vicomte's words.

"I shall be careful, monsieur," he said. "My only fear is that they will find it so difficult to follow that they may stay here indefinitely."

"The trooper is a knave for all that, and deserves to hang; but it was well conceived—the cutting of the saddlery." And then they both laughed again. I had a mind to join in their humour, and it was hard to refrain from chuckling a little on my own account.

"'Tis a pity you could not get mademoiselle's horse."

"It was impossible, monsieur; but you will find mine carry her as well, and it is even now ready.

"Well; it does not much matter." And rising De Ganache opened the window and looked forth.

"It is a night of stars," he said, "and dark. Lord! if we but had a moon!"

"Monsieur will find the guide lead you well."

"I want no guide on my own lands, Pechaud. Night and day are one to me when I ride across them. But this guide: who is he?"

"I myself, monsieur."

"You! And yet, perhaps, 'tis as well; but I fear me, old friend, that the sky will be red behind us with the flames of this good inn; they will not forego that revenge."

"Let it be so, monsieur. My ancestors have followed yours for two centuries, and taken the good with the bad—and I am as they are; you know this."

De Ganache looked at him, and as I heard this faithful retainer's words I began to understand the force that my opponent had on his side. After a moment's pause Pechaud continued:

"But, monsieur, a word from an old man. How long is this to last? Why are you not at the King's side, as your forefathers ever were? Make your peace with the Court, as Monsieur d'Andelot and the Admiral have done——"

"Enough, Pechaud! Perhaps I will take your advice, and that soon; but for the present I must pull my sword-belt in by a hole, and see that my saddlery at any rate is right. As for this Monsieur Broussel, he told mademoiselle that he knew me, but I have never set eyes on him that I know. What manner of man is he?"

"Monsieur, we have just heard him as he slept."

De Ganache shrugged his shoulders and glanced up at the clock.

"It is time," he said. "Warn mademoiselle."

Pechaud turned; but even as he did so there was a light step on the stairs, and mademoiselle came down dressed for travelling, and holding her riding-whip in her hand. As she passed she glanced swiftly in my direction, and for the moment I thought I was discovered; but the shadow was impenetrable, and she went on. De Ganache rose to receive her, holding out his hand. I noticed that she barely touched it, as she asked quickly:

"Is all ready?"

"Everything, Diane." And I winced at the familiar address.

"De Ganache," she said, "I had your word for it that no harm should befall Monsieur Broussel. He risked his life for me, and I owe it to him that I stand here alive; what have you done with him?"

De Ganache smiled. "Even if he had not acted as he has, if he were my bitter foe, your word would have been law to me. Monsieur Broussel is alive and well. If we had time I would take you down the passage and show him to you—sleeping the sleep of the just."

"Forgive me! I know not what it is. I am haunted by all sorts of fears——"

"Then fear no more," he said gently, trying to take her hand, but she withdrew it from him. And then he dropped his arm, and went on: "By to-morrow evening you will be with friends, and, perhaps, you will learn by then that there are others ready and willing to die for you if need be."

"Gaston!" she said; and now it was she held out her hand, and he bent respectfully over it as he touched it with his lips.

To tell truth, I was suffering more torture than if I had been run through, for in Diane's last word I felt all my hopes vanish, I was taken off my cross, however, by the necessity for action, for Pechaud, who had discreetly retired at mademoiselle's entrance, now returned, and announced that the horses were ready.

"Come!" said De Ganache, and as he said so I stepped out and faced them. It was a bolt from the blue. Mademoiselle shrank back with a little startled cry. Pechaud stood as one petrified, his jaws agape, and his old hands trembling, whilst De Ganache put himself between me and mademoiselle, his hand on the hilt of his sword.

"Stand back!" he said hotly. "Back!"

And as hot an answer trembled on my tongue, but I held myself in.

"Monsieur, you do not seem to know me. Shall I remind you of this morning?"

At my words it was he who went back; his hand left his sword-hilt, and he stood staring at me.

"You!" he stammered. "I did not recognise—I—I did not know——"

"Enough, monsieur! I forgive you the ill turn you were about to play me. Perhaps, were I in your case, I would do the same——"

"If so, then my course is clear. In any other thing I would yield to you, but not in this."

"Listen. Your plan was well laid; but my men are not traitors, and I—I have not slept. Monsieur de Ganache, I have but to raise my voice, and there will be three to one against you——"

"I care not," he answered furiously, and his sword flashed in his hand, but in a moment Diane was between us.

"De Ganache! Monsieur Broussel! Put back your swords, I implore you!"

And with this she clung to De Ganache's arm. He paled to the lips as he tried to free himself.

"Diane, 'tis our only way! Keep back, Diane!"

But for answer she clung all the more to him, and it seemed as if she were covering him from my sword, as she cried out again: "No, no! It is too terrible! I will not have it! It must not be!"

I looked from one to another, a hundred emotions tearing at my heart. I had seen enough to understand how these two stood to one another, and, utterly miserable at heart, I gave way. A sudden impulse, that carried me as like a wave, seized me, and I burst out:

"Monsieur de Ganache, let it be for Mademoiselle de Paradis to decide between us. I give you my word I will abide by her choice."

Diane let her hand fall from De Ganache's arm and turned to me in astonishment. And De Ganache stared at me with wide-open eyes, and asked slowly, dropping his words out:

"You say this?—you pledge your word?"

"I have said so. I undertook to take mademoiselle to Paris, and to see her in safety there, at the cost of my life if need be. I have since learned that which makes it impossible for me to do this unless mademoiselle comes with me of her own free will. I leave her to make her choice."

"Then, Diane, come!" And De Ganache turned towards her, a hand outstretched. I stepped aside to leave the way free, but to my surprise mademoiselle made no answer, but stood in wavering hesitation, now looking at one and then at the other of us. Once more De Ganache began to urge her, stepping quite close up and speaking in low but quick and earnest tones.

"Diane, the very stars are with us! What is there that makes you hesitate? By to-morrow evening we will be with our own people, and henceforth I will always be by your side to defend you."

She stopped him with an impatient gesture of her hand. Even where she stood in the half light I saw the red rush to her cheeks at his last words; and then she asked:

"Monsieur Broussel, I too have been learning, or rather guessing, at some things since I came down here. Is it you that Monsieur le Vicomte has to thank for his life?"

I did not answer; but De Ganache began to speak as one defending himself:

"I do thank him; but when I told you of this I did not know Monsieur Broussel's name, Diane."

"All this does not concern the matter," I cut in. "What mademoiselle has to decide is whether she will go on to Paris or not. Which shall it be?" And I faced her.

A little silence, and her eyes refused to meet mine. Then she said faintly: "I—I do not know."

All depended on a single turn, but it was De Ganache himself who threw his cards away. Stepping up to mademoiselle he put his arm through hers, and with an air of command, almost proprietorship, he said:

"Come, Diane, we waste time here, and we have far to go. I shall give Monsieur Broussel his thanks another day."

She looked up at him—such a look!—and withdrew her arm.

"Monsieur de Ganache," she said, "you take too much on yourself. I have decided, and I shall go to Paris."

De Ganache looked at her and laughed bitterly. Then he broke forth into weak reviling at womankind. She let him run on, and at last he asked:

"And after all I have done and risked this—this is your answer?"

"My answer—to everything, monsieur." And with this she turned from him, and passing me went up the stair, back to her apartments.

I was standing a little apart, leaning on my sword, hardly able to believe my ears, and wondering at the ways of womankind. De Ganache had taken up his hat, and was nervously tearing at the plume, his lips moving with unspoken words. All at once he turned to me, and his voice was hoarse with passion:

"Monsieur, you have won. I set this against this morning. And we are quits. Quits, you understand?"

I bowed, but made no answer. The man was beside himself, and the slightest word would have led to his drawing on me, and for mademoiselle's sake I held myself in.

"Pechaud!" he went on, "my horse."

And crushing his hat on his head he passed me without another word and went to the door. Pechaud followed him, and began to urge something, but was silenced with a rough word. Then he called for a light. Pechaud came running back for the lantern, and through the open door, as the light flickered on him, I saw De Ganache mount. Once he glanced back at me. He could see nothing, for I was in darkness, but the light which fell on his features showed him pale as ashes. The horse backed a little. He drove his spurs in with an oath, and then I heard him hammering through the night, going—God knows whither. Beat—beat—beat—the iron-shod hoofs rushed through the village, and the dogs awoke, and barked, barked and howled, long after he had passed on his reckless course.

I waited a little, and then called to Pechaud. He came back slowly, and set his lantern with a trembling hand on the table. For the rest of the night we were in safety—that I knew.

"It grows late, Maitre Pechaud," I said, "and I need rest." And so I left him.



CHAPTER XVIII

DR. JOHANNES CABALLUS

I made all arrangements betimes for an early start the next morning; and, with a remembrance of what had passed between us last night, ordered a table, with one cover only, to be set for mademoiselle near the window of the dining-room. Then I went out into the garden to while away the time there until my charge was ready for the journey.

There was a little walk outside the open window, through which I could see all that passed within the dining-room. Here I paced backwards and forwards, reflecting on the events of the past few hours. I could, of course, see that for some reason or other Diane had apparently broken with De Ganache. It was not a trick of heartless coquetry—for that I gave her credit. Yet the change had been so swift and sudden that it was difficult to assign any other reason for it. So far as I was concerned I was sure my affair was utterly hopeless; but the air of the Italian campaign would doubtless cure me, and I almost caught myself wishing that I had lost the game last night and was free to turn my horse's head where I listed.

In this disjointed thought I passed some time, and it was well after nine o'clock that Diane came forth from her room. Through the window I saw her descending the stair, and, not wishing to intrude, withdrew to the extreme end of the walk, where I began to be interested in the operations of a spider weaving his web in a rose bush. I could, however, see into the room, and observed Diane stop near the table, hesitate a little, and then sit down. Pechaud began to flutter around her, but after a little she rose, and coming to the window looked straight out at me. My spider had by this time vanished into the petals of a half-open rose, and turning I met Diane's look, and lifted my hat in formal greeting, remaining, however, where I was, as I was determined to keep the position she had assigned to me.

"Monsieur Broussel!"

"Mademoiselle!" And now I stepped up to the window.

"Will you let me know when we start?"

"As soon as ever you are rested sufficiently, mademoiselle."

My tone was coldly polite, and there was equal indifference in her voice.

"It is very good of you to say this; but now that I have decided to go to Paris the sooner it is over the better."

"The horses are ready."

"Then, perhaps, we had better start."

"I am at your service, mademoiselle." And a quarter of an hour later we were on our way once again. I did not take the direct road by Chatellerault, but turned half westward, intending to enter Touraine by way of Chinon, and then to follow the route by which I had come to Poitiers.

It was a summer day, such as can only be met with in France. Overhead billowy white clouds rolled and piled in the sapphire blue of the sky. A wind, fresh and cool, blew from the west, sweeping over the plain, hissing into the crests of the yellow broom and purple loosestrife, and bending them into lines of colour that chased each other like waves over the grey-green moorland. As we left the plain and came to the undulating lands of northern Poitou, where the country twisted down to the Bienne, the hedgerows, all glimmering in gold and green, and gay with blossoming thorn, were awake with the song of the thrush and the black-cap. We had passed Lencloitre on our left, and in that dip, dark with walnut-trees, lay the little hamlet of Razines, which had so many memories for me.

Up to now neither mademoiselle nor I had exchanged a word, as I rode well in the rear of our party, sending Capus, who knew the country, to lead us. Diane had so far kept her word, and rode behind Capus in silence. At intervals I pushed a little to one side and watched her, and now and again, as we came to a turn or a bend in the road, I saw her full and fairly, but she never so much as glanced in my direction. A little farther on we skirted some rising ground, and there, to our half-left, lay Richelieu, the smoke still rising from its burning houses, and, caught by the wind, stretching out in a long horsetail across the country. Mademoiselle reined up and watched the scene for a little, our party halting behind her. As we did so we heard a loud neigh, and a riderless horse, the saddlery still on him, came out of some stunted trees and trotted towards us. At a sign from me one of my men caught the horse and freed him of his bit and saddle, whilst I galloped up to the trees, upon which half a dozen or so of ravens were sitting. When I reached them I found what I expected there, and the hideous birds croaked down on me as if in derision, for what was lying there was past all aid of man. I came back as I went, and Diane asked:

"Is there anyone there, monsieur?"

"No, mademoiselle. And 'tis almost time for our midday halt; a little farther on and we will rest."

Diane turned her horse's head, and I was about to turn back once more to my place when she said in a low tone:

"Monsieur, I have something to say to you."

I bowed, and rode up beside her. And we let the men go onward, dropping together to the place I had left in the rear.

"Monsieur," she said after a little, "I have been trying to say what I want all the morning. I want you to forgive me for the cruel words I used to you last night. I—I never meant them." She was flushed and trembling as she spoke, and I saw the tears in her eyes. I lifted my hat at her words.

"Mademoiselle, after all you were right. I am but Bertrand Broussel, a citizen of Paris, as you know, and you——"

"Oh yes; I know all that; but, oh! I feel hot with shame when I think of my words. Monsieur, say you forgive me!"

"With all my heart, mademoiselle! Think no more of it, I pray you." And then, to change the subject, I pointed to a grove of trees in front of us. "There, mademoiselle, is where we halt for an hour or so. What say you to a race there?"

"Are you not afraid of that?"

"I will risk it," I said. And, with a laugh, she touched her Norman with the whip, and I kept Lizette pounding after her, until she pulled up, flushed and hot, near the trees, beside which the Mable purled past.

"Beaten again," she said as I came up.

"It is my fate." And, pulling up, I pointed to the river. "Do you remember this river, mademoiselle?"

"The Mable!" And she shuddered. "But surely it was not here that we crossed on that awful night?"

"No; some miles lower down." And then I helped her to dismount, and attended to the horses, whilst she borrowed my sword, and tying her 'kerchief to the point signalled to our men to come on.

There are days when all that happens is trivial, yet the memory of which is ever to be marked in white; and this was such an one to me. I let myself forget the impossible during that brief two hours' halt; nor ever had I known Diane so gracious. We spoke much of Paris. She had never seen the great city nor the Court, and I told her what I knew, though my knowledge of the Louvre was a little old. As a child she had seen the Queen once—on the day of the Lists of Amboise—and wondered whether she were altered.

"She is much the same. Time has dealt gently with her."

"Is it true that in secret she is of our—I mean my faith?"

"It is said that she favours the new religion, but I know not if this is true. It is certain, however, that she has never joined in the persecution, and 'tis said that both D'Andelot and Marot owed their escape to her."

"And you, monsieur—are you too of the faith?"

"Mademoiselle, I think, if the truth be told, that men who, like myself, have lived much in the world do not bind themselves in their hearts to this faith or to that, whatever they profess with their lips."

"But, monsieur——"

"Listen, mademoiselle. This does not mean that we do not know how infinite is the distance between us and God nor how hard the road is to His throne."

"There is the path of faith, monsieur."

"That is the path we search for, sometimes unconsciously; and perhaps, with God's aid, I may find it ere I die."

Then there was a silence, and after that the talk drifted to other things. And I but mention this conversation because it was due to it and it alone that I was set upon the track that led to the True Road.

A little later Pierrebon, who was indulging his appetite for a good sleep, awoke from his nap, and discovered it was time to be moving. So, fording the river, we took our way north. Towards sunset we saw the walls of the priory of Ile Bouchard, around which clustered the houses of the village, like barnacles to a galley's side. On arrival here I craved the hospitality of the good monks for the night, and this was readily afforded us. Early the following morning, having bidden farewell to our kind hosts, we looked our last on the grey pile, half monastery and half fortress, and went our way through the stunted forest that straggled downward to the Vienne. Between these narrow strips of woodland, through which the path wound, rose ragged knolls clad in short, dark green juniper, and here and there were bright splashes of colour, where flowering wild weeds clustered at the bases of the brown ribs of rock that stood up starkly over all. We crossed the river by the ferry between Auche and Riviere, where the little Veude falls into the Vienne, and halted for a space on a bluff to survey the landscape. At this hour of the morning, with the air so gay, the sky so blue, and the sun so bright, the lights were still soft enough to allow the whole beauty of the scene to be strongly felt. At our feet the river went dancing along in a sweeping blue curve, its left bank clothed with rich vineland, and on its right a belt of forest—the outskirts of the forest of Chinon—which stretched, a sea of green, grey, and dim, mysterious purples, to the far-distant Loire. There, on its wooded height, the pentice roofs glistening in the sunlight, stood Chinon, with its triple castle, so full of the memories of history; and all around spread the wide Tourangeais.

"Tourangeaux, Angevins Bons esprits et bons vins,"

sang Capus, grizzled old war-dog though he was, and, the spirit of the morning seizing us, we urged our horses down the slope, and scurried through the forest towards Chinon.

After a little we slackened pace and went on slowly, until, towards midday, when about half a league—or perhaps less—from Chinon, we came upon a roadside inn, all covered with climbing roses in bloom, whilst the air was full of the cooing of numberless pigeons that circled around and perched upon a dovecote that looked like a tower. Here mademoiselle stopped, declaring that she would travel no farther that day; and accordingly, having made arrangements for our accommodation, I walked out with Diane into a long, straggling garden that lay at the back of the house. At the extreme end of the garden was a summer-house, and on entering this we found it occupied by an old man, who sat reading therein. We were about to draw back, but he rose, leaning upon a stout stick, and very courteously invited us to be seated. His hooded black cassock, and the tonsure which was visible, as he had removed his cap, marked the priest. He was very feeble, as we could see, though his eyes, bright and piercing, contrasted strangely with the deadly pallor of his cheeks. A straggling grey moustache and beard partly concealed his mouth, which was set in a smile half mirthful and half sardonic. I put him down as the cure of a neighbouring hamlet, as he gave us the benediction, and invited us to join him, saying as he did so:

"Mademoiselle, I have long looked in dreamland for the lady who would be chosen above all others as Abbess of Thelema—and now, behold! you have come!" Plucking a rose as he spoke he bowed with old-world grace, and held it out with a shaking hand to Diane, who took it with a flush on her face, and thanks on her lips, but a puzzled look in her eyes.

"I see, Monsieur le Cure," I said, "you are an admirer of Doctor Rabelais."

"He is the most intimate friend I have, and, as you are doubtless aware, the Doctor is a townsman of Chinon."

"That, perhaps, is his book you are reading?"

"Alas, no! 'tis merely a Hebrew lexicon I was studying to decide a dispute I have with my friend Doctor Johannes Caballus of the University of Orange; but—you are learned in Hebrew, monsieur?"

"I cannot say I am," I laughed, "though we meet on common ground in admiration of Rabelais."

"In that case, monsieur, you and mademoiselle must be my guests at dinner. It is almost the hour, and we will dine here." And without waiting for a reply he seized a small handbell that lay beside him and rang it. In a little the host appeared, and the cure turned to him:

"Is dinner, as I ordered it, ready?"

"Monsieur!"

"Then serve it here, and set the table for four. Mayhap the Doctor Johannes Caballus may join us. Let me see what there is for dinner. Ah! three sucking-pigs, and a fourth to follow in quince sauce, six capons, twelve pigeons, twelve quails, four legs of mutton en brune pate, twelve sweetbreads, four tongues, four veal——"

But the landlord had fled, and Diane was staring with wide-open eyes, whilst I confess I thought that we had a harmless lunatic before us.

"Perhaps, monsieur, we have Gargantua dining with us?"

"That would be but a flea-bite to him. But there is the Doctor Caballus." And pushing aside the roses he pointed before him; all we could see was a sleek mule sunning itself in a patch of green.

"There is only a mule there," said Diane.

"True; but he is a Doctor of Laws of the University of Orange. I must tell you that the estimable beast is the property of Doctor Rabelais, who permits me to use him, being, as I said, a friend of friends to me. It so happened that the University of Orange conferred degrees on payment of fees without seeing or testing the candidate. My friend Rabelais, who loves a merry jest, sent them the money for a Doctor's degree for one Johannes Caballus, the same being his mule. And in due course the parchment came; and so our friend there is as much a Doctor of Laws as my lords the Bishops of Seez or Montpelier. But here comes our dinner."

I need not say that the dinner was not the feast for giants that was ordered; but, though it was plentiful, all that our old friend could eat was a little dish of peas fried in fat, which he washed down with thin wine and water. He kept all the talk to himself, delighting us with a thousand merry quibbles and jests, until, finally, he called for his mule, saying that he must depart.

"Mademoiselle," he said as he wished us farewell, "you are going on a long journey, and I on a much longer, but I know that wherever you are there will be the house of Thelema." And as I helped him to pull his domino over his shoulders he whispered in my ear: "Beati qui in domino moriuntur."

Then, slowly and painfully mounting his mule, and chuckling at his grim jest, he ambled away, the landlord bowing respectfully to him as he passed.

"Who is he?" asked Diane.

"That, mademoiselle," said our host, "is the Doctor Rabelais, whose name is honoured as that of the King here. He has a small estate called La Deviniere hard by, and comes here at times for his health. He returns to Paris to-morrow; but he will never come back—that I know." And he shook his head sorrowfully.

* * * * * *

We never met again, for Rabelais died a month later; but in my library at Orrain, which now contains close upon a hundred volumes, I have a copy of his works bound in red velvet, and clasped with silver. Nor ever do I touch it without thinking of that rose-clad summer-house in the old garden in Touraine.



CHAPTER XIX

THE WOMAN IN BLACK AND WHITE

A few days later we saw the cliffs of Chateaudon, from whose heights the stronghold of Dunois looks down upon the town crouching beneath. On arrival we found a lodging in the little square below the castle, and here I thought it necessary to call a halt for a couple of days. Thus far our journey to Paris had been free from serious misadventure; but I was full of fears, for I knew not what folly De Ganache might commit in his madness, and the evil phantom of Simon was ever grinning over my shoulder. I, therefore, judged it prudent to write to Le Brusquet, begging him to inform the Queen how far I had come; and, as difficulties might arise in regard to my entry into Paris, I suggested that mademoiselle should be met by an escort either at Etampes or Montlhery; and, commending myself to his friendship, begged the favour of his losing no time in aiding me in this matter. This letter I entrusted to Capus, bidding him meet me with the answer at Etampes, where he would find me at the Toison d'Or.

As soon as mademoiselle, chiefly upon whose account I had halted, was sufficiently rested to continue the journey we started once more, and quitting the vine country entered the smiling Beauce. It was towards the end of June, and our way led through the granary of France, with its long green reaches of meadow and rich cornland. Here, under the clear blue of the sky, and in an air like crystal, stretched endless fields of corn, swaying gently in the gentle breeze, and chequered with vivid patches of blue cornflower and red poppy. After the seared plains of Poitou the freshness, the peace, and the plenty around us struck us in convincing contrast, nor could I help thinking what a little it would take to make the sad Poitevin plain smile like this.

We travelled by easy stages, reaching Etampes about the sixth day, and here, on arrival at the Toison d'Or, I was disappointed to get no news of Capus. There was nothing for it but to wait, and a few days passed pleasantly enough in the curious old town. One incident that occurred is, perhaps, worthy of notice. Almost opposite our inn was a forbidding-looking house, without arms or escutcheon of any kind upon the gate. To all appearance it was uninhabited, but from the balcony of the inn mademoiselle and I observed a lady dressed in black who daily paced for an hour or so on the terrace overlooking the garden of the house. We could not distinguish her features, for she was ever closely veiled, but her attitude and mien marked the deepest dejection. To the idle all things are of interest, and our curiosity was excited; so on one occasion, as the lady paced mournfully on the terrace, mademoiselle asked the landlord who she was.

"That, mademoiselle, is the Duchess herself."

"The Duchess!"

"Yes, mademoiselle; the Duchess d'Etampes. She has lived here in the strictest seclusion ever since the late King's death. She receives no one, and yet for miles around she is blessed for her charity. 'Tis said, however," and he dropped his voice, "that she is a Christaudin; but of this I know nothing."

And so this sad, dark-robed spectre was the once brilliant and beautiful De Helly! I went back in my mind to the gay days when she reigned as queen. It was not so long ago, and I could recall all that throng of syrens. There was Canaples, star of the morning; the lovely St. Pol, star of the evening; Rieux, Tallard, Lestrange; but one only of that galaxy was left, the loveliest and the worst—Diane, whom men called the crescent moon. For her I wondered what fate was in store.

The next day, towards sunset, mademoiselle and I were once again upon the balcony of the inn, when I saw a horseman trotting past the parvis of St. Martin. I was sure it was Capus, and my doubts were soon at rest, for as he rounded the corner and came up the Rue St. Jacques I saw it was he, and signalled to him. He lifted his arm in the air in answer to my signal, and spurring his beast drew up a minute or so after at the door of the inn.

"What news, Capus?" I called out; and he waved a letter that he held in his hand. Making an excuse to mademoiselle I ran down to meet him, and soon had Le Brusquet's letter in my hands. He had done as I asked, and we were to be met at Longpont, near Montlhery; and in a postscript he added that Olden Hoorn had sent him the two hundred crowns I had asked for from Poitiers—a piece of news not without interest to me. When I had finished Capus said:

"I came with the escort, monsieur, as far as Montlhery. It is commanded by the Sieur de Lorgnac. There are ten lances and two court ladies and a dozen or so of sumpter horses—a brave show. They all lie at the priory at Longpont."

"Thanks, Capus. Go now and rest." And as the man went I stood for a little looking after him, and then went back to the balcony, the letter in my hand. As I came up mademoiselle called out to me:

"See!" she cried, "there is the new moon; turn over the money in your pocket, and wish."

I laughed. "There is little enough to turn, mademoiselle; but for my wish—it is all good fortune and happiness to you."

"Now you will bring me ill-luck for having spoken your wish aloud. Oh, monsieur!"

"Heaven forbid! But have you wished, may I ask?" She turned away with a little sigh, and looked out into the violet evening, where the slender sickle of the moon shone silver bright. Down below the twilight darkled in the streets. Figures moved like shadows, and now and again a light flashed out. Tall and slight, she stood out against the darkening sky, her face half averted from me, and I knew not what it was, but an almost irresistible impulse came on me to put my fortune to the touch. But I thought of De Ganache. She was his promised wife. I thought of what I had to offer, and this and that gave me strength, and so I held back.

"Mademoiselle," I said with an effort, "this is our last evening, and my wardship ends to-morrow."

"To-morrow?"

"Yes; the Queen has sent an escort to meet you at Longpont."

"She is most kind!"

"And as I may not have the chance of speaking to you alone again——"

"Why that?" she interrupted quickly. "You will be in Paris. You will be at the Court. I counted upon having at least one friend there."

"You will have more than one friend there, mademoiselle, and more than one enemy, I fear; but I was about to say that I leave Paris the day after I reach there for Italy."

"For Italy?"

"Yes; I follow M. de Montluc there. You see, old as I am, I have to begin life over again, and there is many a fair fortune yet waiting to be sliced out of the Romagna."

She said never a word, and I continued: "It will be long ere I see France again—perhaps never; and so, mademoiselle, I once more wish you all that is good, and I offer my congratulations—I have not ventured to do so before."

She spoke now. "Monsieur, I thank you! I will not pretend not to understand your last words; but there are some good wishes that may mean misfortune, and it grows late. Good-night!"

She slid by me, and was gone almost before I realised it.

It was just past the dawn the next morning when we left Etampes. There were but five leagues or so to cover ere we reached Montlhery, and for almost the whole way we could see before us the castle that crowned the hill. At the ford of the Orge we saw a small group of horsemen, their arms shining in the sunlight.

"'Tis the escort," said Capus, and quickening our pace we were soon with them, and I handed over my charge to De Lorgnac.

There were with him two of the Queen's ladies—Madame de Montal, and the bright-eyed Cypriote, Mademoiselle Davila, she who had escaped from the sack of Cyprus—and these two immediately appropriated mademoiselle, asking ten questions in a breath, never waiting for answer, and detailing the hardships of their own journey of four leagues or so from Paris. I had no chance of another word with her, and rode morosely by Lorgnac's side.

That night we lay at the priory of Longpont; but I saw nothing of mademoiselle, for the ladies both dined and supped by themselves, leaving De Lorgnac and myself to our own devices. After supper, as we paced the garden together, De Lorgnac gave me the news of the day, mentioning, amongst other things, that Vendome had returned to the Court once more, and that all differences between him and the Duchess de Valentinois appeared to have been buried. I glanced at the signet that I wore on my finger, Vendome's gift to me, saying:

"That is, perhaps, the best thing that could have happened for me; but I little dreamed that Vendome would ever have joined hands with Diane."

"As to that," he said, "I have long ceased to be surprised at anything. Poor Le Brusquet was in disgrace for a whole day for suggesting a new device for the Duke—a weathercock on a steeple." And he laughed as he added: "The Duke came back almost a week ago, with five hundred gentlemen in his train—amongst others the late rebel De Ganache, for whom he has obtained a pardon."

"De Ganache!"

"Yes; there has been a turn of the wheel, and for the moment the new religion is in favour. What it means I know not; but as for De Ganache, the Court gossips are already linking his name with Diane's. 'Tis certain he is ever at her heels."

"The weathercock would suit him as well as Vendome," I said a little bitterly; "but it is good news that even for the moment the new faith is in favour. It removes one danger, and the other is——"

"Back in Paris," interrupted De Lorgnac.

"You mean my brother?"

"Yes; the Vidame came back a trifle over a fortnight ago with an arm very much hurt and one-third of his usual following of cut-throats."

"He will not have much trouble in filling his vacancies; but is he much hurt?" And I smiled grimly to myself.

"Oh! he was badly pinked; but his arm is out of its sling now. There is some devil's broth preparing, and he and Diane are the cooks. Le Brusquet, however, has sworn to put his ladle into it, and so we shall see things ere long."

"Not I," I laughed. "I shall be in Italy with Montluc."

"You may not," was the dry answer. "Recollect that the Queen has the first claim on you, and the war between her and Diane will soon be open war. Up to now it has been a kiss and a stab, but soon it will be all stab."

And so we talked until a late hour, and little did I think, as I retired to sleep, that Lorgnac's doubt about my Italian journey would come to be true.

It was well on towards the afternoon that we reached the Porte St. Michel, for we had started late, and Madame de Montal would on no account be parted from the sumpter horses, whose rate of progress was necessarily slow. M. Agrippa de Pavanes was at the gate, and as we filed in, I last of all, he looked hard at me; but I had other business on hand, and could not at the moment spare time to devote to this gentleman. It was clear, however, that he owed me a grudge over the affair of the King's letter. As it happened, we never met again; and Pavanes, if he still lives, must look upon his account with me as one of his unsettled scores.

A few yards from the gate the road narrowed, and at the corner where the little Rue Poiree strikes off between two rows of tumble-down houses to join the Rue St. Jacques there was somewhat of a block. I had fallen back behind the sumpter horses, and halted for a moment, when I felt a hand rest lightly on my stirrup. I looked down, and, as I live, it was La Marmotte.

"You!" I exclaimed. "In Paris!"

"Monsieur," she said hurriedly, her face pale and haggard, "this meeting is not chance. Ask for me tomorrow at vespers at the shop of Barou the armourer in the Rue Tire Boudin. If you do not do this you will never cease to regret it. Fail not!" And she made as if to draw away.

"A word," I said. "Trotto—does he live?"

"Oh! he lives. Thanks, monsieur, a thousand thanks!"

I had placed a piece of money in her hand, to take off any suspicion, and, rising to her part, she seized it, calling down blessings on me, and stepped back into the crowd.

Our party had gone a little ahead, and I did not overtake them until almost opposite the Cordeliers, where I joined De Lorgnac.

"That was a strange-looking beggar," he remarked.

"She was no beggar, De Lorgnac; but of her I will tell you when you, Le Brusquet, and I are once more together."

"I shall try to wait until then; it will be in less than an hour."

We then joined the ladies, and rode by them, all outwardly in high spirits. As we rode past the tennis courts the sumpter horses were diverted to enter the Louvre by the gate near the riding-school, but we ourselves rode directly towards the main entrance. On arrival there we noticed a large crowd of sightseers at the gates, and our further progress was stopped by a carriage, surrounded by a troop of the King's guards, that came slowly out of the gate. In the carriage sat, or rather reclined, a woman robed in black and white—a woman with sullen, dark eyes and a face lovely in its pride. It was the crescent moon—Diane herself. The carriage came out slowly, as I have said, the horses walking, and from where I rode beside mademoiselle I saw her clearly. She was toying with a little dog she held under her arm and talking to a young man who sat facing her—a man whose face burned like fire, and the laugh on whose lips died away when he saw us—for it was De Ganache. The Duchess followed his glance, and turned in our direction. As her fathomless eyes fell on mademoiselle her lips parted in a smile.

"St. Siege! it must be your little heiress. Come, tell me, De Ganache—is it not so?"

Her voice, clear as a bell, came to us distinctly. The veiled scorn and mockery in her glance was not to be mistaken, and then the horses were whipped up, and she was gone. It was all over in a moment; but I saw the riding-whip in mademoiselle's hand trembling, and she kept her face from me, looking straight between her horse's ears.

"Do you know who that was?" I asked in a low voice; but she made no answer, and I went on:

"Remember the prophecy you told me of, and—be on your guard against the woman in black and white. That was Diane of Valentinois."



CHAPTER XX

THE CROWN JEWELS

An hour later I sat with Lorgnac and Le Brusquet in a little room in the former's house in the Rue Tire Boudin. At the Louvre I had discovered that there was no chance of my being able to see the Queen until after the supper hour; and so I accepted the hospitality De Lorgnac offered me, and was back again in the very house in which I had spent my last night in Paris.

A few minutes after our arrival Le Brusquet ambled up on a Spanish mule, and soon we three were deep in discussing what had happened since the day I rode out of the Porte St. Michel. I had perforce to relate my own adventures, and when I described my meeting with La Marmotte and her strange request De Lorgnac rose from his seat, and approaching the window, said:

"You can see Maitre Barou's store from here. It abuts on my stables, and you will not have far to go to keep your appointment."

"If I do keep it; but at present I have no such intention."

"You must keep it." It was Le Brusquet's incisive voice that cut in.

"Why? There is no reason why we should ever meet again."

"There is every reason—that is, if you take sufficient interest in the future of Mademoiselle de Paradis."

De Lorgnac came back to his seat. I looked inquiry, and Le Brusquet continued:

"A few things have been happening lately that make me think there is a porridge on the boil that would be the better for our help in the stirring. There have been little whispers afloat that Diane is meditating a great coup. Certain it is, that she and that upright judge Dom Antony de Mouchy have been much together of late. Certain it is that this coquetting with the new faith means more than Christian toleration; and, putting this and that together, I have got a clue. You do not know Carloix, do you?"

"No."

"Well, Maitre Vincent Carloix was my sister's husband whilst she lived. He is also my very good friend, and, besides that, secretary to that most noble lord Francois de Scepeaux, Marshal de Vieilleville. Carloix is a discreet man; but I gathered enough from him to guess that it would be safer for a Christaudin to be a prisoner with a Barbary corsair than be in Paris now, despite all the hobnobbing that goes on between the Court and Vendome and the Admiral."

"But," said De Lorgnac, "how does all this concern Mademoiselle de Paradis? Even if it did she is the Queen's ward."

"Anne d'Audeberte was a maid-of-honour, and you both know what happened to her. My dear De Lorgnac, our friend here has told us enough for us to know that mademoiselle is a heretic to her pretty fingertips. This is bad—for her. Recollect that the Vidame d'Orrain is Diane's right-hand man; and we may be certain that his attempt on Mademoiselle de Paradis was made with the full knowledge of the Duchess. Recollect, again, that this woman La Marmotte is the wife or mistress—I care not which—of Orrain's own man——"

"And as the Chevalier here ran him through the ribs he may not unnaturally desire to repay the account," put in De Lorgnac.

"It is not that," I said; "she warned me of danger in Le Jaquemart."

"Precisely. It is of that I was thinking," said Le Brusquet. "No, Chevalier—for to us you are the Chevalier d'Orrain and not Bertrand Broussel—no, La Marmotte means you no harm, and I would stake a thousand pistoles against an obolus that you will hear something of interest concerning mademoiselle. She is not going to warn you about yourself, I fancy," and he laughed; "she knows that the Chevalier d'Orrain can look to his skin."

"But what can be the cause of Diane de Poitiers' enmity of mademoiselle?" I asked. "So far as I know, they have only but once seen each other, and that but three hours ago."

"The greatest of all causes, monsieur—money. Diane loves gold as a swallow loves a fly. When a woman is avaricious she will let nothing stand between her and her desire. Again, it is no disrespect to the Vidame, your noble brother, to say he would sell his soul for a hundred crowns, and Dom Antony de Mouchy is worse than either he or Diane. Why, man, they have shared between them the wretched estate of a journeyman tailor! The property of a street-hawker, burnt in the Place Maubert, was granted to them, and they took it."

"It is almost incredible!" I exclaimed.

"But it is true," said De Lorgnac.

"It appears to me," I said, "that my departure for Italy will be a little delayed."

"If you were as superstitious as I am," and Le Brusquet smiled as he spoke, "you would say that departure is a dream of the past."

"Why?"

"Eh bien, a month ago, you left Paris from this very house never to return, and here you are back again! It is my belief that your fate is against your leaving Paris, and your game will have to be played here. That slice of the Romagna you intended for your own helping will go to fill another's plate."

I laughed, and De Lorgnac rose. "There is Quinte with Cartouche at the door," he said, "and I must be off. Be at the door of the Queen's apartments a little before compline, and so, au revoir!"

"We have almost an hour and a half still," said Le Brusquet, "and if it were not safer for you to be indoors as much as possible I would suggest spending a half-hour at the Bourgogne."

"I think it would be better to stay here; but tell me, do you know anything definite about this design of the Duchess?"

"No. All that I know is that there is something afoot. Vieilleville was approached; but, to his honour, refused to have anything to do with it. I know, however, no details."

"Then all we can do at present is to wait and watch."

He nodded, and poured himself out some wine. Leaving him to sip his Joue I retired to change my dress, and shortly after we rode out to the Louvre. On arrival there we proceeded at once to Le Brusquet's apartments, where he received a joyous welcome from his ape.

"Here," he said, as he put the little beast down and took a sword from the wall, "here is the sword you lent me that night. You see it is clean and sharp as ever."

"Let it remain, then, in your hands, monsieur, as a trifling remembrance of Bertrand d'Orrain."

"I thank you! I shall guard it as it should be guarded. Corbleu! but it was a narrow affair that night; but for you Vendome might be wearing wings now, and the house of Besme extinct as the Sphinga."

"It was a lucky chance. I suppose that old fox Camus still has his lair in the same place? I wonder what made him turn against me as he did——"

"Oh, Camus is like a dog that loves biting, a dog that would bite his own master in default of anyone else. Yes; he is there still. As for his turning on you, that is part of his duty; he has been for years a paid servant of Diane."

"How long is this woman to last?"

"As long as her roses. But they say those are fadeless; and Saint Gelais has had to leave the Court in fear of his life for swearing that she keeps them ever fresh by daily bathing her face in sow's milk." And he laughed as he added: "But come, now, it is time to be moving."

We were soon in the long gallery leading to the Queen's apartments; but, instead of the darkness and gloom that pervaded it on the occasion of my last visit, all was in light. Cressets burned everywhere, and at every few yards stood a flambeau-bearer, his torch alight. The vaulted roof above us was dim with the smoke that rose from the torches, and there was everywhere the subdued murmur of voices, as people passed and repassed, or stood in small knots conversing. So great was the change that I could not avoid noticing it; and Le Brusquet explained that it was always so when any of the royal children, who lived at St. Germain-en-Laye, visited the Queen. He had just said this when we rounded the abrupt curve the gallery made, and came face to face with two men walking arm-in-arm in the direction opposite to that we were taking. They were Simon and De Ganache, and recognition was mutual and instant. Monsieur de Ganache saw the surprised look on my face, which he no doubt read, as I glanced from him to my brother; and lifting his hat in a half-defiant, half-shamefaced manner, would have passed on, but Simon held him by the arm, and planting himself right in our path said, with an insolent stare:

"This gentleman must have mistaken the Louvre for the Gloriette."

Le Brusquet plucked my sleeve in warning; but I was cool enough, and had no intention of again laying myself open to the law. I gave Simon stare for stare. "Yes; it is I," I answered coldly; and then, turning to De Ganache: "Monsieur, it was from the Vidame d'Orrain that I had the good fortune to rescue Mademoiselle de Paradis. I thought you knew of this. If not, you know now with whom your arm is linked."

"By God!" Simon burst out, "if I did not remember where I was——"

"Tush!" I broke in, "there are a hundred other places where we can settle our differences. I have no time to be brawling here."

With this I pushed past, and left them looking at each other as, followed by Le Brusquet, I gained the door to the Queen's apartment. As we came up De Lorgnac himself appeared, and passed us into the anteroom. I well remembered that cheerless tomb through which I had passed a month ago; but now it was all glittering bright. The door of the Queen's cabinet was closed; but to the right folding doors—that I had not observed before—were open, giving a glimpse, through the half-drawn curtains, of a crowded salon beyond. In the ante-room itself there were about a dozen or so of ladies-in-waiting and pages, all talking and laughing; and as we followed De Lorgnac I felt a light touch at my elbow, and turning met a merry face that smiled up at me. It was little Mademoiselle Davila, the same who with Madame de Montal had met us at Longpont.

"Eh bien! So you have come, monsieur. I can tell you that you have been expected. Oh! we have heard about you at last—heard twice over—and we are all thinking of playing truant and running away to the forest of Vincennes or Monceaux. That last is better, for it is nearer Paris——" But here her breathless chatter was cut short by a "Hush!" from the salon, and then we heard the strings of a harp being touched.

"'Tis belle Marie, the little Queen of Scotland!" And moving forward a couple of steps we were able to see into the next room. I looked round in vain for mademoiselle, and then my glance was arrested by a tall, fair-haired girl who was before a harp; and even I, who should have had no eyes but for one face, stood as if spellbound. As her fingers ran over the harp strings a low, wailing melody filled the room, and then with a voice of strange sweetness she sang a sad little song—a bergerelle of my own country. Harp and voice together died away in inexpressible sorrow at the last words, and a strange stillness filled the room, but was broken at last by a half-suppressed sob. Then in a moment all was changed. There came a bright little flourish, and she sang, joyous and blithe as a lark:

"Si le roi m'avait honne Paris sa grand'ville, Et qu'il m'eut fallu quitter L'Amour de m'amie; J'aurais dit au Roi Henri Reprenez votre Paris, J'aime mieux m'amie O gai! J'aime mieux m'amie O gai!"

"O gai!" burst the chorus, almost unconsciously, from those around her, and with a flush on her face and a smile on her lips Mary of Scotland moved from the harp, and was immediately lost to view in the circle of those who crowded around her. I looked for my companions. Mademoiselle Davila had found a lanky page to flirt with; Le Brusquet seemed to have vanished; but De Lorgnac was at hand.

"Come now!" he said, and I followed him across the crowded room to where the Queen sat, amidst a group of her ladies, with the Dauphin—a small, ill-formed boy of thirteen or fourteen—at her knees. She received me graciously; and on my delivering my packet she broke the seals, glanced at the contents with apparent carelessness, and then handed it—all open as it was—to a lady who stood behind her.

"La Beauce, put this on my table." And then turning to me, said, with a laugh:

"Your ears should be tingling, monsieur, for the last hour or so there has been nothing but you talked of by my maids-of-honour. It seems that the cock of Orrain has not forgotten the use of his spurs."

My tongue had long since forgotten such courtier tricks as it had learned. In truth, it was never good at these; and whilst I was casting about for something to say, and wishing myself well away from the ring of faces that circled me in, a gay, laughing voice broke in:

"But where is the heroine, madame? Where is Diane of the Forest? She should thank her preserver before your Majesty." And Mary of Scotland, heedless and blithe of heart, made me a mock little courtesy as she moved to the Queen's side.

"Here she is," cried twenty voices; "she has been hiding here." And, before I knew how it was, I found myself face to face with mademoiselle.

"Thank him! thank him!" the reckless voices around us began to shout; and, as I stood fumbling about, mademoiselle, with a face like fire, made me a stiff bow, and was about to step back, when our chief tormentor called out:

"Oh, how poor a thanksgiving! Surely this is a fit case for a Court of Love!—how and in what way a fair lady should greet her knight after a parlous quest?"

"Madame"—and Mary of Scotland knelt before the Queen—"you will hold a Court now, will you not?"

"O gai! O gai!" And there was a chorus of laughter and cheers.

Where all this foolery might have ended Heaven knows. The Queen herself seemed to be enjoying it, and was about to make some reply to Mary, when there was a bustle at the door, and an usher called out:

"The King! His Majesty the King!"

Holding the Dauphin by the hand the Queen rose and advanced to meet the King, who entered, followed by half a dozen of his gentlemen. Henri was tall, strongly built, and carried himself royally; but there was a strange mixture of courage and weakness in his countenance. He was brave—no man could be found to deny that; but there was never a sparkle of intelligence in his dull eyes, though at times they shone with cunning, and his mouth was weak and sensual. That night he had supped in the apartments of Diane de Poitiers, and had evidently primed himself for this visit to the Queen, for his face was flushed and his voice thick.