; otherwise, no one was present save
Pare, who, as he held up the curtain, stood back to let M. de Ribaumont
advance. He stood still, however, merely bowing low, awaiting an
invitation to come forward, and trying to repress the startled tear
called up by the very shock of pity at the mournful aspect of the young
King and Queen.

Elisabeth, absorbed in her husband, and indifferent to all besides,
did not even turn her head as he entered; but Charles signed to him
to approach, holding out a yellow, dropsical-looking hand; and as he
dropped on one knew and kissed it fervently, the King said, 'Here he is,
Madame, the Baron de Ribaumont, the same whose little pleasure-boat was
sucked down in our whirlpool.

All Elisabeth's memories seemed to have been blotted out in that
whirlpool, for she only bowed her head formally, and gave no look of
recognition, though she, too, allowed Berenger to salute her listless,
dejected hand. 'One would hardly have known him again, continued the
King, in a low husky voice; 'but I hope, sir, I see you recovering.

'Thanks, Sire, to Heaven's goodness, and to your goodness in sparing to
me the services of Maitre Pare.

'Ah! there is none like Pare for curing a wound OUTSIDE,' said Charles,
then leant back silent; and Berenger, still kneeling, was considering
whether he ought to proffer his petition, when the King continued, 'How
fares your friend Sidney, M. le Baron?

'Right well, Sire. The Queen has made him one of her gentlemen.

'Not after this fashion,' said Charles, as with his finger he traced
the long scar on Berenger's face. 'Our sister of England has different
badges of merit from ours for her good subjects. Ha! what say they of us
in England, Baron?

'I have lain sick at home, Sire, and have neither seen nor heard, said
Berenger.

'Ah! one day more at Montpipeau had served your turn,' said the King;
'but you are one who has floated up again. One--one at least whose blood
is not on my head.

The Queen looked up uneasy and imploring, as Charles continued: 'Would
that more of you would come in this way! They have scored you deep, but
know you what is gashed deeper still? Your King's heart! Ah! you will
not come, as Coligny does, from his gibbet, with his two bleeding hands.
My father was haunted to his dying day by the face of one Huguenot
tailor. Why, I see a score, night by night! You are solid; let me feel
you, man.

'M. Pare,' exclaimed the poor Queen, 'take him away.

'N