"I promise to leave it, monsieur, if you will but take my office."

"Your office!" said Brantome in surprise.

"Yes; I have always felt myself unworthy of it since I had the honour
to meet you."

"Not at all, my friend," grinned Brantome; "you do yourself injustice.
The man who quarrels with madame has unequalled claims. You have no
rival. _Au revoir_!"

And, chuckling to himself, the little abbe went on, leaving Le Brusquet
biting his lip. Brantome stopped the next person he met to tell him of
the passage-at-arms, and turning the walk we found ourselves in front
of the Ladies' Terrace.

Somewhat apart from the gay groups that crowded together in the centre
of the Terrace was a solitary figure standing near the pedestal of a
bronze satyr, cast for the late King by Messer Benvenuto the
Florentine. It was mademoiselle herself, and with a word to Le
Brusquet I left him and walked straight up to her.

"I was wondering to myself if I should see you here," she said as she
greeted me.

"And I came specially to see you, so that Fate has been kind for once."

She smiled, and was about to make some answer, when there was a burst
of laughter and the sound of many voices, and turning we saw Diane de
Poitiers on the stairway leading down to the Terrace, surrounded, as
usual, by a heedless and ever-laughing crowd. She stood for a moment,
her Court around her, whilst the people on the other parts of the
Terrace broke up their talk and came towards us. Then La Valentinois,
who was robed in crimson, began to descend the marble steps slowly, and
as she reached the Terrace all those assembled there bowed to her as
though she were the Queen. All except myself and mademoiselle, who
stood plucking at the ivy leaves on the pedestal of the statue beside
her, apparently unconscious of La Valentinois' presence. Whether the
Duchess noticed me or not I do not know, but I saw her eyes fixed on
mademoiselle, and she stopped full, about two paces from her.
Mademoiselle, however, maintained her attitude of total unconcern; but
after a moment she looked up and the glances of the two crossed each
other. Mademoiselle stared past the favourite as though she did not
see her, and Diane's face became like ivory, and her dark eyes frosted
with an icy hate--a hate cold and pitiless as everlasting snow. All
eyes were fixed on them now, and there was a dead silence as the
two--the woman and the girl--faced each other. But it was mademoise