lle
who was winning. Far away as her look was there was that in it that
brought the colour back to Diane's cheeks, to make it go again. Her
bosom rose and fell, she played nervously with her fan, and at last she
spoke, with a voice that shook in spite of her efforts to restrain it:

"I hear, mademoiselle, that you do not find the Court to your liking."
And the reply was a simple bow.

The Duchess was all red and white now. The insult was open and patent;
but worse was to follow, for she made a mistake, and went on, with a
sneer:

"It is a pity they do not care more for the education of girls in
Poitou; but I think you are right, mademoiselle. The Court is not
suited to you. You should take the veil and the black robe."

"I should prefer the black robe to a crimson one, madame. The latter
reminds one too much, amongst other things, of the blood of the
martyrs."

It was a crushing retort, and one to which there was no answer, for the
affair of the tailor of St. Antoine's was fresh in all minds.
Something like a murmur went up from those around. The Duchess gave a
little gasp; but, preserving her composure with an effort, turned and
walked away, her head in the air, but wounded to the quick. The crowd
followed her, but one figure remained--a man with a white, drawn face
and dark circles under his eyes. Thrice he made a movement as if to
step up to us and say something, but each time his courage failed him;
and then, turning, he too hastily followed the others. And from my
soul I pitied De Ganache.

CHAPTER XXV

THE PACKET OF LETTERS

We were left alone together, the bronze satyr leering down upon us as
if in mockery. La Valentinois stood at the other end of the Terrace
surrounded by her Court, and ever and again there were whisperings
amongst them, and strange glances bent towards us. We might have been
plague-stricken, in such manner did all shrink from us.

"Mademoiselle," I said, "you have been too rash. Look!" And I glanced
at the group around Diane de Poitiers. She followed my eyes, and a
little smile played upon her lips.

"I care not, nor do I fear her."

"But, mademoiselle, there are others who fear for you, and that has
happened which you must hear. Not here! Come away from this, where we
will be secure from prying eyes."

For a little she seemed to hesitate, and then: "Very well, monsieur;
the air will, perhaps, be purer away from here."

So, side by side, we went down the