A few days later we saw the cliffs of Chateaudon, from whose heights the stronghold of Dunois looks down upon the town crouching beneath. On arrival we found a lodging in the little square below the castle, and here I thought it necessary to call a halt for a couple of days. Thus far our journey to Paris had been free from serious misadventure; but I was full of fears, for I knew not what folly De Ganache might commit in his madness, and the evil phantom of Simon was ever grinning over my shoulder. I, therefore, judged it prudent to write to Le Brusquet, begging him to inform the Queen how far I had come; and, as difficulties might arise in regard to my entry into Paris, I suggested that mademoiselle should be met by an escort either at Etampes or MontlhÉry; and, commending myself to his friendship, begged the favour of his losing no time in aiding me in this matter. This letter I entrusted to Capus, bidding him meet me with the answer at Etampes, where he would find me at the Toison d'Or.

As soon as mademoiselle, chiefly upon whose account I had halted, was sufficiently rested to continue the journey we started once more, and quitting the vine country entered the smiling Beauce. It was towards the end of June, and our way led through the granary of France, with its long green reaches of meadow and rich cornland. Here, under the clear blue of the sky, and in an air like crystal, stretched endless fields of corn, swaying gently in the gentle breeze, and chequered with vivid patches of blue cornflower and red poppy. After the seared plains of Poitou the freshness, the peace, and the plenty around us struck us in convincing contrast, nor could I help thinking what a little it would take to make the sad Poitevin plain smile like this.

We travelled by easy stages, reaching Etampes about the sixth day, and here, on arrival at the Toison d'Or, I was disappointed to get no news of Capus. There was nothing for it but to wait, and a few days passed pleasantly enough in the curious old town. One incident that occurred is, perhaps, worthy of notice. Almost opposite our inn was a forbidding-looking house, without arms or escutcheon of any kind upon the gate. To all appearance it was uninhabited, but from the balcony of the inn mademoiselle and I observed a lady dressed in black who daily paced for an hour or so on the terrace overlooking the garden of the house. We could not distinguish her features, for she was ever closely veiled, but her attitude and mien marked the deepest dejection. To the idle all things are of interest, and our curiosity was excited; so on one occasion, as the lady paced mournfully on the terrace, mademoiselle asked the landlord who she was.

"That, mademoiselle, is the Duchess herself."

"The Duchess!"

"Yes, mademoiselle; the Duchess d'Etampes. She has lived here in the strictest seclusion ever since the late King's death. She receives no one, and yet for miles around she is blessed for her charity. 'Tis said, however," and he dropped his voice, "that she is a Christaudin; but of this I know nothing."

And so this sad, dark-robed spectre was the once brilliant and beautiful De Helly! I went back in my mind to the gay days when she reigned as queen. It was not so long ago, and I could recall all that throng of syrens. There was Canaples, star of the morning; the lovely St. Pol, star of the evening; Rieux, Tallard, Lestrange; but one only of that galaxy was left, the loveliest and the worst—Diane, whom men called the crescent moon. For her I wondered what fate was in store.

The next day, towards sunset, mademoiselle and I were once again upon the balcony of the inn, when I saw a horseman trotting past the parvis of St. Martin. I was sure it was Capus, and my doubts were soon at rest, for as he rounded the corner and came up the Rue St. Jacques I saw it was he, and signalled to him. He lifted his arm in the air in answer to my signal, and spurring his beast drew up a minute or so after at the door of the inn.

"What news, Capus?" I called out; and he waved a letter that he held in his hand. Making an excuse to mademoiselle I ran down to meet him, and soon had Le Brusquet's letter in my hands. He had done as I asked, and we were to be met at Longpont, near MontlhÉry; and in a postscript he added that Olden Hoorn had sent him the two hundred crowns I had asked for from Poitiers—a piece of news not without interest to me. When I had finished Capus said:

"I came with the escort, monsieur, as far as MontlhÉry. It is commanded by the Sieur de Lorgnac. There are ten lances and two court ladies and a dozen or so of sumpter horses—a brave show. They all lie at the priory at Longpont."

"Thanks, Capus. Go now and rest." And as the man went I stood for a little looking after him, and then went back to the balcony, the letter in my hand. As I came up mademoiselle called out to me:

"See!" she cried, "there is the new moon; turn over the money in your pocket, and wish."

I laughed. "There is little enough to turn, mademoiselle; but for my wish—it is all good fortune and happiness to you."

"Now you will bring me ill-luck for having spoken your wish aloud. Oh, monsieur!"

"Heaven forbid! But have you wished, may I ask?" She turned away with a little sigh, and looked out into the violet evening, where the slender sickle of the moon shone silver bright. Down below the twilight darkled in the streets. Figures moved like shadows, and now and again a light flashed out. Tall and slight, she stood out against the darkening sky, her face half averted from me, and I knew not what it was, but an almost irresistible impulse came on me to put my fortune to the touch. But I thought of De Ganache. She was his promised wife. I thought of what I had to offer, and this and that gave me strength, and so I held back.

"Mademoiselle," I said with an effort, "this is our last evening, and my wardship ends to-morrow."

"To-morrow?"

"Yes; the Queen has sent an escort to meet you at Longpont."

"She is most kind!"

"And as I may not have the chance of speaking to you alone again——"

"Why that?" she interrupted quickly. "You will be in Paris. You will be at the Court. I counted upon having at least one friend there."

"You will have more than one friend there, mademoiselle, and more than one enemy, I fear; but I was about to say that I leave Paris the day after I reach there for Italy."

"For Italy?"

"Yes; I follow M. de Montluc there. You see, old as I am, I have to begin life over again, and there is many a fair fortune yet waiting to be sliced out of the Romagna."

She said never a word, and I continued: "It will be long ere I see France again—perhaps never; and so, mademoiselle, I once more wish you all that is good, and I offer my congratulations—I have not ventured to do so before."

She spoke now. "Monsieur, I thank you! I will not pretend not to understand your last words; but there are some good wishes that may mean misfortune, and it grows late. Good-night!"

She slid by me, and was gone almost before I realised it.

It was just past the dawn the next morning when we left Etampes. There were but five leagues or so to cover ere we reached MontlhÉry, and for almost the whole way we could see before us the castle that crowned the hill. At the ford of the Orge we saw a small group of horsemen, their arms shining in the sunlight.

"'Tis the escort," said Capus, and quickening our pace we were soon with them, and I handed over my charge to De Lorgnac.

There were with him two of the Queen's ladies—Madame de Montal, and the bright-eyed Cypriote, Mademoiselle Davila, she who had escaped from the sack of Cyprus—and these two immediately appropriated mademoiselle, asking ten questions in a breath, never waiting for answer, and detailing the hardships of their own journey of four leagues or so from Paris. I had no chance of another word with her, and rode morosely by Lorgnac's side.

That night we lay at the priory of Longpont; but I saw nothing of mademoiselle, for the ladies both dined and supped by themselves, leaving De Lorgnac and myself to our own devices. After supper, as we paced the garden together, De Lorgnac gave me the news of the day, mentioning, amongst other things, that VendÔme had returned to the Court once more, and that all differences between him and the Duchess de Valentinois appeared to have been buried. I glanced at the signet that I wore on my finger, VendÔme's gift to me, saying:

"That is, perhaps, the best thing that could have happened for me; but
I little dreamed that VendÔme would ever have joined hands with Diane."

"As to that," he said, "I have long ceased to be surprised at anything. Poor Le Brusquet was in disgrace for a whole day for suggesting a new device for the Duke—a weathercock on a steeple." And he laughed as he added: "The Duke came back almost a week ago, with five hundred gentlemen in his train—amongst others the late rebel De Ganache, for whom he has obtained a pardon."

"De Ganache!"

"Yes; there has been a turn of the wheel, and for the moment the new
religion is in favour. What it means I know not; but as for De
Ganache, the Court gossips are already linking his name with Diane's.
'Tis certain he is ever at her heels."

"The weathercock would suit him as well as VendÔme," I said a little bitterly; "but it is good news that even for the moment the new faith is in favour. It removes one danger, and the other is——"

"Back in Paris," interrupted De Lorgnac.

"You mean my brother?"

"Yes; the Vidame came back a trifle over a fortnight ago with an arm very much hurt and one-third of his usual following of cut-throats."

"He will not have much trouble in filling his vacancies; but is he much hurt?" And I smiled grimly to myself.

"Oh! he was badly pinked; but his arm is out of its sling now. There is some devil's broth preparing, and he and Diane are the cooks. Le Brusquet, however, has sworn to put his ladle into it, and so we shall see things ere long."

"Not I," I laughed. "I shall be in Italy with Montluc."

"You may not," was the dry answer. "Recollect that the Queen has the first claim on you, and the war between her and Diane will soon be open war. Up to now it has been a kiss and a stab, but soon it will be all stab."

And so we talked until a late hour, and little did I think, as I retired to sleep, that Lorgnac's doubt about my Italian journey would come to be true.

It was well on towards the afternoon that we reached the Porte St. Michel, for we had started late, and Madame de Montal would on no account be parted from the sumpter horses, whose rate of progress was necessarily slow. M. Agrippa de Pavanes was at the gate, and as we filed in, I last of all, he looked hard at me; but I had other business on hand, and could not at the moment spare time to devote to this gentleman. It was clear, however, that he owed me a grudge over the affair of the King's letter. As it happened, we never met again; and Pavanes, if he still lives, must look upon his account with me as one of his unsettled scores.

A few yards from the gate the road narrowed, and at the corner where the little Rue PoirÉe strikes off between two rows of tumble-down houses to join the Rue St. Jacques there was somewhat of a block. I had fallen back behind the sumpter horses, and halted for a moment, when I felt a hand rest lightly on my stirrup. I looked down, and, as I live, it was La Marmotte.

"You!" I exclaimed. "In Paris!"

"Monsieur," she said hurriedly, her face pale and haggard, "this meeting is not chance. Ask for me tomorrow at vespers at the shop of Barou the armourer in the Rue Tire Boudin. If you do not do this you will never cease to regret it. Fail not!" And she made as if to draw away.

"A word," I said. "Trotto—does he live?"

"Oh! he lives. Thanks, monsieur, a thousand thanks!"

I had placed a piece of money in her hand, to take off any suspicion, and, rising to her part, she seized it, calling down blessings on me, and stepped back into the crowd.

Our party had gone a little ahead, and I did not overtake them until almost opposite the Cordeliers, where I joined De Lorgnac.

"That was a strange-looking beggar," he remarked.

"She was no beggar, De Lorgnac; but of her I will tell you when you, Le
Brusquet, and I are once more together."

"I shall try to wait until then; it will be in less than an hour."

We then joined the ladies, and rode by them, all outwardly in high spirits. As we rode past the tennis courts the sumpter horses were diverted to enter the Louvre by the gate near the riding-school, but we ourselves rode directly towards the main entrance. On arrival there we noticed a large crowd of sightseers at the gates, and our further progress was stopped by a carriage, surrounded by a troop of the King's guards, that came slowly out of the gate. In the carriage sat, or rather reclined, a woman robed in black and white—a woman with sullen, dark eyes and a face lovely in its pride. It was the crescent moon—Diane herself. The carriage came out slowly, as I have said, the horses walking, and from where I rode beside mademoiselle I saw her clearly. She was toying with a little dog she held under her arm and talking to a young man who sat facing her—a man whose face burned like fire, and the laugh on whose lips died away when he saw us—for it was De Ganache. The Duchess followed his glance, and turned in our direction. As her fathomless eyes fell on mademoiselle her lips parted in a smile.

"St. Siege! it must be your little heiress. Come, tell me, De
Ganache—is it not so?"

Her voice, clear as a bell, came to us distinctly. The veiled scorn and mockery in her glance was not to be mistaken, and then the horses were whipped up, and she was gone. It was all over in a moment; but I saw the riding-whip in mademoiselle's hand trembling, and she kept her face from me, looking straight between her horse's ears.

"Do you know who that was?" I asked in a low voice; but she made no answer, and I went on:

"Remember the prophecy you told me of, and—be on your guard against the woman in black and white. That was Diane of Valentinois."