appiness nor contentment yet, father," answered the
king peevishly. "I have never been so pestered in my life. The whole
court has been on its knees to me to entreat me to change my intention."

The Jesuit looked at him anxiously out of his keen gray eyes.

"Fortunately, your Majesty is a man of strong will," said he, "and not
to be so easily swayed as they think."

"No, no, I did not give an inch. But still, it must be confessed that
it is very unpleasant to have so many against one. I think that most
men would have been shaken."

"Now is the time to stand firm, sire; Satan rages to see you passing out
of his power, and he stirs up all his friends and sends all his
emissaries to endeavour to detain you."

But the king was not in a humour to be easily consoled.

"Upon my word, father," said he, "you do not seem to have much respect
for my family. My brother and my son, with the Abbe Fenelon and the
Minister of War, are the emissaries to whom you allude."

"Then there is the more credit to your Majesty for having resisted them.
You have done nobly, sire. You have earned the praise and blessing of
Holy Church."

"I trust that what I have done is right, father," said the king gravely.
"I should be glad to see you again later in the evening, but at present
I desire a little leisure for solitary thought."

Father la Chaise left the cabinet with a deep distrust of the king's
intentions. It was obvious that the powerful appeals which had been
made to him had shaken if they had failed to alter his resolution.
What would be the result if more were made? And more would be made;
that was as certain as that darkness follows light. Some master-card
must be played now which would bring the matter to a crisis at once, for
every day of delay was in favour of their opponents. To hesitate was to
lose. All must be staked upon one final throw.

The Bishop of Meaux was waiting in the ante-room, and Father la Chaise
in a few brief words let him see the danger of the situation and the
means by which they should meet it. Together they sought Madame de
Maintenon in her room. She had discarded the sombre widow's dress which
she had chosen since her first coming to court, and wore now, as more in
keeping with her lofty prospects, a rich yet simple costume of white
satin with bows of silver serge. A single diamond sparkled in the thick
coils of her dark tresses. The change had taken years from a face and
figure which had