es
with the army. There was little air of ceremony. All present were
more or less acquainted with each other.

In a room screened off by curtains, the king was playing at cards
with a few highly privileged members of the court, and he would
presently walk through the long suite of rooms, but while at cards
his presence in no ways weighed upon the assembly. Groups of ladies
sat on fauteuils surrounded by their admirers, with whom volleys of
light badinage, fun, and compliments were exchanged.

Leaving Rupert talking to some of those to whom he had been
introduced in the king's antechamber, and who were anxious to obey
the royal command to make themselves agreeable to him, the Marquis
de Pignerolles sauntered across the room to a young lady who was
sitting with three others, surrounded by a group of gentlemen.

Rupert was watching him, and saw him stoop over the girl, for she
was little more, and say a few words in her ear. A surprised and
somewhat puzzled expression passed across her face, and then as her
father left her she continued chatting as merrily as before.

Rupert could scarcely recognize in the lovely girl of seventeen the
little Adele with whom he had danced and walked little more than
four years before.

Adele de Pignerolles was English rather than French in her style of
beauty, for her hair was browner, and her complexion fresher and
clearer, than those of the great majority of her countrywomen. She
was vivacious, but her residence in England had taught her a
certain restraint of gesture and motion, and her admirers, and she
had many, spoke of her as l'Anglaise.

Rupert gradually moved away from those with whom he was talking,
and, moving round the group, went through an open window on to a
balcony, whence he could hear what was being said by the lively
party, without his presence being noticed.

"You are cruel, Mademoiselle d'Etamps," one of the courtiers said.
"I believe you have no heart. You love to drive us to distraction,
to make us your slaves, and then you laugh at us."

"It is all you deserve, Monsieur le Duc. One would as soon think of
taking the adoration of a butterfly seriously. One is a flower,
butterflies come round, and when they find no honey, flit away
elsewhere. You amuse yourself, so do I. Talk about hearts, I do not
believe in such things."

"That is treason," the young lady who sat next to her said,
laughing. "Now, I am just the other way; I am always in love, but
then I ne