grey beaver, swathed with a scarf
of blue and gold.

Standing by the hearth, one foot on the stone kerb, one elbow leaning
lightly on the overmantel, she proceeded leisurely to remove her gloves.

The Seneschal observed her with eyes that held an odd mixture of
furtiveness and admiration, his fingers--plump, indolent-looking
stumps--plucking at his beard.

"Did you but know, Marquise, with what joy, with what a--"

"I will imagine it, whatever it may be," she broke in, with that brusque
arrogance that marked her bearing. "The time for flowers of rhetoric is
not now. There is trouble coming, man; trouble, dire trouble."

Up went the Seneschal's brows; his eyes grew wider.

"Trouble?" quoth he. And, having opened his mouth to give exit to that
single word, open he left it.

She laughed lazily, her lip curling, her face twisting oddly, and
mechanically she began to draw on again the glove she had drawn off.

"By your face I see how well you understand me," she sneered. "The
trouble concerns Mademoiselle de La Vauvraye."

"From Paris--does it come from Court?" His voice was sunk.

She nodded. "You are a miracle of intuition today, Tressan."

He thrust his tiny tuft of beard between his teeth--a trick he had when
perplexed or thoughtful. "Ah!" he exclaimed at last, and it sounded like
an indrawn breath of apprehension. "Tell me more."

"What more is there to tell? You have the epitome of the story."

"But what is the nature of the trouble? What form does it take, and by
whom are you advised of it?"

"A friend in Paris sent me word, and his messenger did his work well,
else had Monsieur de Garnache been here before him, and I had not so
much as had the mercy of this forewarning."

"Garnache?" quoth the Count. "Who is Garnache?"

"The emissary of the Queen-Regent. He has been dispatched hither by her
to see that Mademoiselle de La Vauvraye has justice and enlargement."

Tressan fell suddenly to groaning and wringing his hands a pathetic
figure had it been less absurd.

"I warned you, madame! I warned you how it would end," he cried. "I told
you--"

"Oh, I remember the things you told me," she cut in, scorn in her voice.
"You may spare yourself their repetition. What is done is done, and I'll
not--I would not--have it undone. Queen-Regent or no Queen-Regent, I
am mistress at Condillac; my word is the only law we know, and I intend
that so it shall continue."

Tressan looked at her in surprise. This unre