maque in the picture.'

'You mean Pere le Brun?'

'Yes; you know he always says he is our Mentor. And I wish he would
change into a goddess with a helmet and a shield, with an ugly face, and
go off in a cloud. Do you think he will, Estelle?'

'Do not be so silly, Ulick; there are no goddesses now.'

'I heard M. de la Mede tell that pretty lady with the diamond butterfly
that she was his goddess; so there are!'

'You do not understand, brother. That was only flattery and compliment.
Goddesses were only in the Greek mythology, and were all over long ago!'

'But are we really going to see our papa?'

'Oh yes, mamma told me so. He is made Ambassador to Sweden, you know.'

'Is that greater than Envoy to Spain?'

'Very, very much greater. They call mamma Madame l'Ambassadrice; and she
is having three complete new dresses made. See, there are _la bonne_ and
Laurent talking. It is English, and if we go near with our cups and
balls we shall hear all about it. Laurent always knows, because my uncle
tells him.'

'You must call him _La Juenesse_ now he is made mamma's lackey. Is he
not beautiful in his new livery?'

'Be still now, brother; I want to hear what they are saying.'

This may sound somewhat sly, but French children, before Rousseau had
made them the fashion, were kept in the background, and were reduced to
picking up intelligence as best they could without any sense of its being
dishonourable to do so; and, indeed, it was more neglect than desire of
concealment that left their uninformed.

This was in 1719, four years after the accession of Louis XV., a puny
infant, to the French throne, and in the midst of the Regency of the Duke
of Orleans. The scene was a broad walk in the Tuileries gardens, beneath
a closely-clipped wall of greenery, along which were disposed alternately
busts upon pedestals, and stone vases of flowers, while beyond lay formal
beds of flowers, the gravel walks between radiating from a fountain, at
present quiescent, for it was only ten o'clock in the forenoon, and the
gardens were chiefly frequented at that hour by children and their
attendants, who, like Estelle and Ulysse de Bourke, were taking an early
walk on their way home from mass.

They were a miniature lady and gentleman of the period in costume, with
the single exception that, in consideration of their being only nine and
seven years old, their hair was free from powder. Estelle's light,
almost flaxen locks were b