ambouillet with infinite
gallantry."

"Monsieur de Livry?"

"Ah! you know his name; then I am telling you nothing new, monseigneur."

"Dubois, I am overwhelmed."

"Not without sufficient cause, monseigneur; but see what is the result
of your managing your own affairs, while you have at the same time to
look after those of France."

"But where is she?"

"Ah! where indeed--how should I know?"

"Dubois, _you_ have told me of her flight--I look to you to discover her
retreat. Dubois, my dear Dubois, for God's sake find my daughter!"

"Ah! monseigneur, you are exactly like the father in Moliere, and I am
like Scapin--'My good Scapin, my dear Scapin, find me my daughter.'
Monseigneur, I am sorry for it, but Geroute could say no more; however,
we will look for your daughter, and rescue her from the ravisher."

"Well, find her, Dubois, and ask for what you please when you have done
so."

"Ah, that is something like speaking."

The regent had thrown himself back in an armchair, and leaned his head
upon his hands. Dubois left him to his grief, congratulating himself
that this affection would double his empire over the duke. All at once,
while Dubois was watching him with a malicious smile, some one tapped at
the door.

"Who is there?" asked Dubois.

"Monseigneur," said an usher's voice at the door, "there is in the
carriage which brought the chevalier a young woman who wishes to know if
he is coming down soon."

Dubois made a bound toward the door, but he was too late; the regent, to
whom the usher's words had recalled the solemn promise he had made to
Gaston, rose at once.

"Where are you going, monseigneur?" asked Dubois.

"To receive this young girl."

"That is my affair, not yours--you forget that you abandoned this
conspiracy to me."

"I gave up the chevalier to you, but I promised him to be a father to
this girl whom he loves. I have pledged my word, and I will keep it;
since through me she loses her lover, I must at least console her."

"I undertake it," said Dubois, trying to hide his paleness and
agitation under one of his own peculiar smiles.

"Hold your tongue and remain here," said the regent.

"Let me at least speak to her, monseigneur."

"I will speak to her myself--this is no affair of yours; I have taken it
upon myself, have given my word as a gentleman. Silence, and remain
here."

Dubois ground his teeth; but when the regent spoke in this tone, he knew
he must obey: he leaned again