through the crowded streets and drew near the
great courtyard of the Louvre he was still thinking--thinking
always--of the web in which he was entangled and of his helpless
little child alone, unhappy--perhaps ill treated--perhaps dead! There
was that day no more heartbroken man in Paris than he.

As he drew rein at the courtyard door, vast as a cathedral's, there
issued from it a great emblazoned carriage, with arms and crests upon
its panels, the four horses drawing it being also richly apparelled
with velvet and nodding plumes, and with at the back three footmen
who, as was the custom of the time, stood each behind the other on a
platform instead of side by side.

His eye, glancing into the interior of the vast fabric, saw within a
woman, young and beautiful, yet with her fair face disfigured--as was
indeed obligatory on all women who attended the court of Louis--with
powder and paint, and with _mouches_, or patches, cut into the various
forms of stars, half moons, and so forth. Her dress, too, was
gorgeous, being of rich velvet of the colour then known as "pigeon
breast," faced with silver brocade and slashed with seams to show the
red and silver lace, while the whole was enriched with plain satin
and watered ribbons, and deep full point lace at breast and sleeves.
On her head, though not hiding her much-curled hair, was a rich
_escoffion_ of ruby velvet surmounted by pearls, and tied beneath her
chin.

She saw him in a moment, the soft hazel eyes resting full on him--saw,
too, that he hesitated as though about to draw his horse away out of
her range of vision; then with a look she beckoned him to draw near
her carriage door, while through the window at the back of the vehicle
she made a sign to the first of the three footmen to have it stopped
against the _chaussee_.

And he, scarce knowing what to do--whether, indeed, to content himself
with coldly taking off his hat and avoiding her, or to obey her
glance, yet instinctively did the latter, and drew up to the window.
And in another moment the embroidered glove had been withdrawn from
her white hand, which was resting in his, while her eyes scanned his
sorrow-stricken face.

"Monsieur St. Georges honoured our poor house no more," she said, "ere
he quitted Troyes. Yet, considering all, it was not strange he should
not do so."

On his guard, since--believing though he did in her honour and in her
mother's--he could not forget she was a De Roquemaure, the kins