ilk, with silver crescents gleaming on them, were drawn to
keep out the afternoon glare; and the subdued, opal-tinted light fell
softly on this bower of luxury, which was, however, likely to prove the
den of a tigress to me.

The room was empty when I entered, and after looking around me I picked
up the volume of Ronsard. It was open at his ode to La Valentinois:

"Seray-je seul, vivant en France de vostre age,
Sans chanter vostre nom, si criant et si puissant?
Diray-je point l'honneur de vostre beau croissant?
Feray-je point pour vous quelque immortel ouvrage?"

So far I read, and then flung the book with its fulsome verses down on
the cushions. As I did this, I heard a little burst of laughter,
followed by the harsh, chuckling scream of a parrot, and then a voice:

"Here! Vert-Vert! Here! To my shoulder!"

I stepped back behind a pillar, the curtains covering a door leading
into an inner apartment were set aside, and La Valentinois entered,
bearing on her left shoulder a large green parrot, whose plumage she
caressed with her right hand. She was clad in a loose robe of some
soft, clinging material that shimmered like cloth of gold. It was
fastened at her throat by a jewelled star, and a golden zone clasped
her waist. Her abundant hair hung loose in black, curling masses, and
her little feet were thrust into gemmed and embroidered slippers.
Madame had apparently come forth in some haste I could see.

"Orrain," she said, her face half turned from me, for she was looking
at her bird, "whatever brings you here? Is it anything from Sire
Grosse-Tete?" And then an exclamation broke from her, and she stopped
short, for she saw me.

"You!" she said. "I thought it was the Vidame d'Orrain."

"A mistake, madame, in announcing me, perhaps, which I regard as the
most fortunate in my life." And I bowed before her.

So bad, so worthless was this woman, that she utterly mistook my speech.

"True! Leila said Monsieur d'Orrain--but I thought it was your
brother."

I made no answer, and she glanced at me, the colour rising to her
cheeks, and a smile on her lips, as she went on:

"'Tis a thousand pities, Monsieur le Chevalier, that you have taken the
wrong side; and by rights I should strike that gong there and call my
guards, for you are dangerous, they say; but," and she sank
languorously down in the cushions, her pet now on her wrist, "'tis a
warm day, and I feel bored. Do I not, Vert-Vert? Perhap