d; 'you are
not fit to move.'

'Oh, then go,' said Eustacie, suffering too much not to be petulant.
'You make me worse.'

'And why? It was not always thus,' began Narcisse, so eager to seize an
opportunity as to have little consideration for her condition; but
she was unable to bear any more, and broke out: 'Yes, it was; I always
detested you more than ever, since you deceived me so cruelly. Oh, do
but leave me!'

'You scorn me, then! You prefer to me--who have loved you so long--that
childish new-comer, who was ready enough to cast you off.'

'Prefer! He is my husband! It is an insult for any one else to speak to
me thus!' said Eustacie, drawing herself up, and rising to her feet;
but she was forced to hold by the back of her chair, and Diane and her
father appearing at that moment, she tottered towards the former, and
becoming quite passive under the influence of violent dizziness and
headache, made no objection to being half led, half carried, through
galleries that connected the Hotel de Bourbon with the Louvre.

And thus it was that when Berenger had fought out his part in the
_melle_ of the prisoners released, and had maintained the honours of the
rose-coloured token in his helmet, he found that his lady-love had been
obliged by indisposition to return home; and while he stood, folding his
arms to restrain their strong inclination to take Narcisse by the throat
and demand whether this were another of his deceptions, a train of
fireworks suddenly exploded in the middle of the Styx--a last surprise,
especially contrived by King Charles, and so effectual that half the
ladies were shrieking, and imagining that they and the whole hall had
blown up together.

A long supper, full of revelry, succeeded, and at length Sidney ad
Ribaumont walked home together in the midst of their armed servants
bearing torches. All the way home Berenger was bitter in vituperation of
the hateful pageant and all its details.

'Yea, truly,' replied Sidney; 'methought that it betokens disease in the
mind of a nation when their festive revelry is thus ghastly, rendering
the most awful secrets made known by our God in order to warm man from
sin into a mere antic laughing-stock. Laughter should be moved by what
is fair and laughter-worthy--even like such sports as our own "Midsummer
Night's Dream." I have read that the bloody temper of Rome fed itself in
gladiator shows, and verily, what we beheld to-night betokens something
at once gris