strolled along the bank of
the Loire towards Plessis inhaling like a fish the fine freshness of
the water, toying, sauntering like a little mouse who wishes to see
and taste everything. When the page perceived that Jacques de Beaune
persistently followed his mistress in all her movements, stopped when
she stopped, and watched her trifling in a bare-faced fashion, as if
he had a right so to do, he turned briskly round with a savage and
threatening face, like that of a dog whose says, "Stand back, sir!"
But the good Tourainian had his wits about him. Believing that if a
cat may look at king, he, a baptised Christian, might certainly look
at a pretty woman, he stepped forward, and feigning to grin at the
page, he strutted now behind and now before the lady. She said
nothing, but looked at the sky, which was putting on its nightcap, the
stars, and everything which could give her pleasure. So things went
on. At last, arrived outside Portillon, she stood still, and in order
to see better, cast her veil back over her shoulder, and in so doing
cast upon the youth the glance of a clever woman who looks round to
see if there is any danger of being robbed. I may tell you that
Jacques de Beaune was a thorough ladies' man, could walk by the side
of a princess without disgracing her, had a brave and resolute air
which please the sex, and if he was a little browned by the sun from
being so much in the open air, his skin would look white enough under
the canopy of a bed. The glance, keen as a needle, which the lady
threw him, appeared to him more animated than that with which she
would have honoured her prayer-book. Upon it he built the hope of a
windfall of love, and resolved to push the adventure to the very edge
of the petticoat, risking to go still further, not only his lips,
which he held of little count, but his two ears and something else
besides. He followed into the town the lady, who returned by the Rue
des Trois-Pucelles, and led the gallant through a labyrinth of little
streets, to the square in which is at the present time situated the
Hotel de la Crouzille. There she stopped at the door of a splendid
mansion, at which the page knocked. A servant opened it, and the lady
went in and closed the door, leaving the Sieur de Beaune open-mouthed,
stupefied, and as foolish as Monseigneur St. Denis when he was trying
to pick up his head. He raised his nose in the air to see if some
token of favour would be thrown to him, and saw no