g-wreath, and to
instruct her in the duties of a good house-wife, since such a snippety
bit of a girl could not of course know much about such things.

But when at length De Scuderi rose to say adieu to the Marchioness, she
again, notwithstanding all their laughing jests, grew very grave as she
took the jewel-case in her hand, and said, "And yet, Marchioness, do
you know, I can never wear these ornaments. Whatever be their history,
they have at some time or other been in the hands of those diabolical
wretches who commit robbery and murder with all the effrontery of Satan
himself; nay, I believe they must be in an unholy league with him. I
shudder with awe at the sight of the blood which appears to adhere to
the glittering stones. And then, I must confess, I cannot help feeling
that there is something strangely uneasy and awe-inspiring about
Cardillac's behaviour. I cannot get rid of the dark presentiment that
behind all this there is lurking some fearful and terrible secret; but
when, on the other hand, I pass the whole matter with all its
circumstantial adjuncts in clear review before my mind, I cannot even
guess what the mystery consists in, nor yet how our brave honest Master
Rene, the pattern of a good industrious citizen, can have anything to
do with what is bad or deserving of condemnation; but of this I am
quite sure, that I shall never dare to put the ornaments on."

The Marchioness thought that this was carrying scruples too far. But
when De Scuderi asked her on her conscience what she should really do
in her (Scuderi's) place, De Maintenon replied earnestly and
decisively, "Far sooner throw the ornaments into the Seine than ever
wear them."

The scene with Master Rene was described by De Scuderi in charming
verses, which she read to the king on the following evening in De
Maintenon's salon. And of course it may readily be conceived that,
conquering her uncomfortable feelings and forebodings of evil, she drew
at Master Rene's expense a diverting picture, in bright vivacious
colours, of the goldsmith's bride of three and seventy who was of such
ancient nobility. At any rate the king laughed heartily, and swore that
Boileau Despreux had found his master; hence De Scuderi's poem was
popularly adjudged to be the wittiest that ever was written.

Several months had passed, when, as chance would have it, De Scuderi
was driving over the Pont Neuf in the Duchess de Montansier's glass
coach. The invention of this ele