t himself. Certes, he never faltered, but rattled on as
if he had two tongues, telling in confidential tone of our father and
mother, our little brothers and sisters at home in Florence; our journey
with the legate, his kindness and care of us (I hoped that dignitary
would not walk in just now to pay his respects to madame la generale);
of our arrival in Paris, and our wonder and delight at the city's
grandeur, the like of which was not to be found in Italy; and, last, but
not least, he had much to say, with an innocent, wide-eyed gravity, in
praise of the ladies of Paris, so beautiful, so witty, so generous! They
were all crowding around him, calling him pretty boy, laughing at his
compliments, handling and exclaiming over his trinkets, trying the
effect of a buckle or a bracelet, preening and cooing like
bright-breasted pigeons about the corn-thrower. It was as pretty a sight
as ever I beheld, but it was not to smile at such that we had risked our
heads. Of Mlle. de Montluc there was no sign.

No one was marking me, and I wondered if I might not slip out unseen and
make my way to mademoiselle's chamber. I knew she lodged on this story,
near the back of the house, in a room overlooking the little street and
having a turret-window. But I was somewhat doubtful of my skill to find
it through the winding corridors of a great palace. I was more than
likely to meet some one who would question my purpose, and what answer
could I make? I scarce dared say I was seeking mademoiselle. I am not
ready at explanations, like M. le Comte.

Yet here were the golden moments flying and our cause no further
advanced. Should I leave it all to M. Etienne, trusting that when he had
made his sales here he would be permitted to seek out the other ladies
of the house? Or should I strive to aid him? Could I win in safety to
mademoiselle's chamber, what a feat!

It so irked me to be doing nothing that I was on the very point of
gingerly disappearing when one of the ladies, she with the yellow curls,
the prettiest of them all, turned suddenly from the group, calling
clearly:

"Lorance!"

Our hearts stood still--mine did, and I can vouch for his--as the heavy
window-curtain swayed aside and she came forth.

She came listlessly. Her hair sweeping against her cheek was ebony on
snow, so white she was; while under her blue eyes were dark rings, like
the smears of an inky finger. M. Etienne let fall the bracelet he was
holding, staring at her ob