u, Francois? You
know I will, but where?"

"To the great hall," repeated he; "my worthy guests desire to see you,
and to pay their respects to the fair lady of Beaumanoir."

It flashed upon her mind what he wanted. Her womanly pride was outraged
as it had never been before; she withdrew her hand from his arm with
shame and terror stamped on every feature.

"Go up there! Go to show myself to your guests!" exclaimed she, with
choking accents, as she stepped back a pace from him. "Oh, Francois
Bigot, spare me that shame and humiliation! I am, I know, contemptible
beyond human respect, but still--God help me!--I am not so vile as to
be made a spectacle of infamy to those drunken men whom I hear clamoring
for me, even now."

"Pshaw! You think too much of the proprieties, Caroline!" Bigot felt
sensibly perplexed at the attitude she assumed. "Why! The fairest dames
of Paris, dressed as Hebes and Ganymedes, thought it a fine jest to wait
on the Regent Duke of Orleans and the Cardinal du Bois in the gay days
of the King's bachelorhood, and they do the same now when the King gets
up one of his great feasts at Choisy; so come, sweetheart--come!" He
drew her towards the door.

"Spare me, Francois!" Caroline knelt at his feet, clasping his hand, and
bathing it in tears--"Spare me!" cried she. "Oh, would to God I had
died ere you came to command me to do what I cannot and will not do,
Francois!" added she, clasping hard the hand of the Intendant, which she
fancied relaxed somewhat of its iron hardness.

"I did not come to command you, Caroline, but to bear the request of my
guests. No, I do not even ask you on my account to go up to the great
hall: it is to please my guests only." Her tears and heartrending appeal
began to sober him. Bigot had not counted on such a scene as this.

"Oh, thanks, Francois, for that word! You did not come to command my
obedience in such a shameful thing: you had some small regard left for
the unfortunate Caroline. Say you will not command me to go up there,"
added she, looking at him with eyes of pitiful pleading, such as no
Italian art ever portrayed on the face of the sorrowing Madonna.

"No," he replied, impatiently. "It was not I proposed it: it was Cadet.
He is always a fool when the wine overflows, as I am too, or I would not
have hearkened to him! Still, Caroline, I have promised, and my guests
will jeer me finely if I return without you." He thought she hesitated a
moment in her resolve