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The lieutenant of the guard was a man to please. His scarlet coat slashed with gold, his fine lace and buckles, his gorgeous sword-belt, showed all the points of his lusty figure in their perfection. There was dormant intellect marked in his eyes, good temper in the well-balanced features of his face, which always wore a self-satisfied smile. Two studies alone occupied him at Versailles or Paris—the study of showy wit and of showy women. Seated by Gabrielle de Vernet's side in the hall of the château he was like a kingfisher among crows. A sense of superiority gave him confidence. He said to himself that it would be easy to shine in such a company.

The long table, lighted by heavy silver candelabra, was arranged in the form of a horse-shoe. The crows, broken down wits and poets, displaying a ripe eagerness for the repast, were at the lower end of the hall. A heavy-browed priest, with hanging cheeks and a purple cassock, sat upon the left hand of the hostess. There was armour in abundance upon the walls of the panelled apartment; and a choir in a gallery at the far end sang a Latin grace very prettily. And that done with, the lackeys busied themselves and the crows began to peck.

Until this moment, de Guyon had not exchanged two words with the girl upon his left hand, but the moment that hot soup was placed before him, he began to rack his brain for some pleasantry that should please. He had contrived to turn a pretty compliment, and was beginning to blurt it out, when to his great annoyance, she raised her finger, and whispered to him—

"We have yet to read the Gospel of the day."

De Guyon checked the words upon his lips, and turned to his dinner. Notwithstanding the pious hopes of the serving man that Pepin would not break his fast, there was meat set before the young lieutenant; and the crows, who were busy with dishes of carp and other unsavoury fish, turned greedy eyes upon his plate. Some fine old Burgundy helped him to wash down the repast, but the others, save the priest, drank a thin white wine, and their mouths shrank every time they raised their tumblers. Nor did one of them venture to open his lips, but sat with eyes cast down and unresting jaws, while a young man, who wore a cassock and bands, read the Gospel of the day, and afterwards a sermon by Massillon, of which the note was the ardent denunciation of all profligates. Then only was the floodgate of talk opened; then only did the crows begin to caw.

"Well, Monsieur de Guyon, and what news have you to tell me of Paris?"

The girl at the head of the table turned a pair of searching eyes upon him. Her face wore the suspicion of a smile. He felt that she was looking him through and through. And he returned her glance, putting on the air of a man who could not by any possibility conceal anything.

"Indeed, madame," said he, "I left the Barrière d'Enfer yesterday at daybreak. We count nothing news in Paris that is forty hours old. And it is a week since I have seen Madame de Boufflers."

"Who is better versed in the small talk of the day than any other lady in Paris. What a misfortune for you."

"It is no misfortune which brings me to the Château aux Loups."

She paid no heed to the compliment, resting her chin upon the back of an exceedingly white hand.

"But the people of the château amuse you very much?" she asked.

"We are never amused by that which we esteem."

She became thoughtful for a minute, continuing to keep her eyes upon him; but before she spoke again, the purple-robed priest upon her left hand turned from his meat for the first time.

"Present me to monsieur," said he.

"My kinsman, the Abbé Gondy," said she simply.

"Your visit is very welcome to us, monsieur," said the Abbé, bowing; "though we are not of the world, we are yet weak enough to wish to know what the world does. What says Paris now of the death of Madame Doublet de Persan. Ah, the great folk I have met in her house—St. Palaze—Mairan, Devaur, Perrin! What a salon it was! I shall never forget her banquets."

The Abbé looked regretfully at the relics of the fish before him, and helped his memory with a deep sigh, and a second glass of the rich red Burgundy. But de Guyon, glad to be set going, answered him apace

"The loss of Madame Doublet de Persan is irretrievable," said he: "we shall not see her like again in Paris. Madame Geoffrin is old; Madame du Deffand grows tiresome. You have heard, monsieur, that her Majesty of Russia is anxious to carry the fashion of the city to the bourgeoisie of St. Petersburg. Madame Geoffrin has refused her twice. Madame du Deffand declines to be the instrument. Society, she says, is made up of persons incapable of knowledge, thought, and feeling. They have enough of those in Muscovy already."

"Ah!" cried the Abbé", with an unecclesiasticaj laugh, "and that is true. If all one hears of her Majesty is well said, she has as many affairs as a grisette of Bordeaux. But I never listen to such tales myself. Charity, monsieur, is a great virtue. Let us cultivate it always."

He smacked his lips over the wine, and Gabrielle de Vernet spoke again.

"You are riding to the palace at Fontainebleau, monsieur?" she asked de Guyon.

He was ready with his answer.

"I am riding to the palace when it is madame's pleasure to ride with me."

"My pleasure? Oh, my dear Monsieur de Guyon, what should I do at Fontainebleau?"

"Then you have not read of his Majesty's invitation, madame?"

"Certainly, I have not. I do not love letters."

He looked at her incredulously.

"But a command from the king; that is different."

"Not at all—it is the same thing; an expression of wishes one does not feel for a person in whom one has no interest. His Majesty's letter may wait the morning. I am in no hurry, and I am sure that he is not."

"And the note from your Cousin Claude?"

"Oh, my Cousin Claude writes always of himself—the subject in which he is most concerned."

De Guyon bit his lip. The woman was either a delightful actress, or a pretty simpleton gone crazy in the practice of a discredited creed.

"We have need of example at the Court, madame," said he. "You have heard the saying of the Abbé Cozer: 'In order to be something, a great part of the nobility is plunged into nothingness.'"

"And you think that I should be an example?"

"His Majesty is sure of it."

"But—you yourself?"

"I am of the king's opinion, as a soldier should ever be."

To his surprise she now laughed lightly.

"Should I have you for a pupil?" she asked.

"One of the most faithful."

"And you would walk with me in the park if I wore no other gown than this?"

"I would look for no greater honour. The best ornament of beauty is simplicity, madame."

"As the best weapon of intrigue is truth, monsieur."

Her mood passed for a moment to severity. Her lips were pursed up, her eyes searched him curiously. It was only for a moment, however. Presently she began to laugh again, and she murmured, as if to herself, some doggerel in which a wag had caricatured the fashionable coiffure of the hour

"Soutiens, Jasmin, je succombe, Et prends bien garde, faquin Qui si ma coiffure tombe Tu auras ton compte demain."

"They tell me," said she, "that women now wear their hair a foot high."

"To conceal the smallness of their heads, believe me, madame."

"What an excellent reason."

"Which, in your case, I venture to think would be no reason at all."

"A hit, a hit!" chimed in the Abbé, who had been busy with the wine-bottle. "They do say that the women at the Court nowadays carry much virtue on their skulls and little in their breasts. But, for myself, I pay no heed to these scandals. The tongue of the world is very wicked, Monsieur de Guyon."

"It is often very amusing," said de Guyon.

"And the more amusing because the less true," said madame.

"Exactly; truth is a very ordinary faculty to cultivate."

"And, therefore, you let it lie fallow."

De Guyon bit his lip again. In all their talk it seemed to him that the slim and graceful girl in the black robe was laughing at him. Accustomed to mould women to his mood, to bend them before the graces which it was the business of his life to cultivate, he knew not how to meet an antagonist against whom flattery was no weapon, and wit no defence. Nor was he willing to admit that he had cut a poor figure.

"I am tired to-night," he said, "but to-morrow——"

The supper being now done, the countess rose from the table and led the way into a little boudoir, not inelegantly furnished, and betraying nothing of that ascetic rigour elsewhere to be observed.

"We will talk of all these things in the morning, when you ride with me, monsieur," said she. "To-night we must amuse you."

He could not find it on his tongue to tell her that already she amused him—nay, fascinated him beyond any woman he had known. The vigour and freshness of her mind were already conquering him. He felt like a boy that had been beaten when he sat at her side to listen to the harpist, and to the ballads of one of the crows, delivered with a nasal drawl and a precision which were ludicrous. And when at last she bade him good-night, and he went up to the great oak-panelled bedchamber, he carried with him the memory of a sweet girlish face, of a woman's eyes that seemed to read his whole soul, of a voice which was soft and pleasing as the clear note of a bell.

From the window of his bedchamber he could look out upon a great sweep of the forest, flooded with the moonbeams. The scene rich in soft lights, in tremulous whisperings and suggestions of sleep fell in with his mood. From the inner court of the château he could hear snatches of song floating upon the stillness of the night; the harsh voice of the rogue Pepin, the deep, baying laugh of the musketeers, spoke of the passing of the wine-cup and of the camp jest. But the woodlands slept, and the rare cries of beasts or notes of birds were like challenges of sentinels that guarded the moon-lit ramparts.

The spell of it all was irresistible, dream-bearing. Long de Guyon sat at his open window, busy with his thoughts. And this thought was above all others: that the mistress of the château must not go to the palace, though her absence cost him his command.