head,
at her throat, and on her arms, and glittered amidst the robes of black
and white she wore. Her voice when she spoke was low and sweet, yet I
had heard it as hard as steel, and I had seen those red lips curve
wickedly, and those dark eyes had looked with sullen and pitiless
indifference on scenes of hideous torture and death. There were two
masks in front of us, arm-in-arm, watching the scene as intently as we
were.

"That woman was born to be queen over men. Look at those eyes,
Montaigne!"

The answer came in a dry, precise voice: "Eyes are the windows of the
soul; but _Quid tibi praecipiam molles vitare fenestras_?--and you are
courtier enough, De Brantome, to appreciate Fontanus' warning."

"I am courtier enough, my philosopher, to know that the crescent moon,
for instance, is out of my reach, not like that orange mask there."

"I do not know to whom you refer."

"There, at the edge of the dais. 'Tis De Ganache, who, from the day he
set foot in Court, has followed Diane about like a spaniel; and though
I care not to gossip----"

Mademoiselle shivered, and half turned towards me; but the talk came to
an abrupt ending, for the herald Montjoy made a sign, and the
trumpeters, advancing each a step, sounded a flourish. It was the
signal for the galliard. As the flourish ended the music broke forth,
and in a moment the empty space before us was gay with moving colours,
like a wind-stirred flower bed. Those on the dais seemed to melt away,
and mademoiselle, leaning forwards, whispered: "Take me out of this!
Anywhere but here!"

She took my arm again, and we edged our way back to the entrance.
Here, however, we found the throng so great that it was impossible to
pass, and seeing a little passage to our right I turned down it. Here,
amidst some foliage, was a secluded seat, and seating her there I took
my stand beside her, at a narrow window that opened out upon the
Ladies' Terrace. The night was warm, and throwing back her hood and
removing her mask mademoiselle leaned forward and looked out upon the
fairy scene in the gardens. The music came to us in fitful strains of
melody, and outside was a glittering enchantment.

"Have you changed your opinion of the Court, mademoiselle?" I asked.

"No!--a hundred times no! Monsieur, I would rather be the poorest
peasant girl on my lands than Diane de Paradis."

I was about to reply when we heard a laugh and the sound of low voices
near us. Where we sat