unning of which he was capable.
Keenly alert to all that passed, he had, from the time that he first
heard the rumour of the king's intention, haunted the antechamber and
drawn his own conclusions from what he had seen. Nothing had escaped
him--the disconsolate faces of monsieur and of the dauphin, the visit of
Pere la Chaise and Bossuet to the lady's room, her return, the triumph
which shone in her eyes as she came away from the interview. He had
seen Bontems hurry off and summon the guardsman and his friend. He had
heard them order their horses to be brought out in a couple of hours'
time, and finally, from a spy whom he employed among the servants, he
learned that an unwonted bustle was going forward in Madame de
Maintenon's room, that Mademoiselle Nanon was half wild with excitement,
and that two court milliners had been hastily summoned to madame's
apartment. It was only, however, when he heard from the same servant
that a chamber was to be prepared for the reception that night of the
Archbishop of Paris that he understood how urgent was the danger.

Madame de Montespan had spent the evening stretched upon a sofa, in the
worst possible humour with everyone around her. She had read, but had
tossed aside the book. She had written, but had torn up the paper.
A thousand fears and suspicions chased each other through her head.
What had become of the king, then? He had seemed cold yesterday, and
his eyes had been for ever sliding round to the clock. And to-day he
had not come at all. Was it his gout, perhaps? Or was it possible that
she was again losing her hold upon him? Surely it could not be that!
She turned upon her couch and faced the mirror which flanked the door.
The candles had just been lit in her chamber, two score of them, each
with silver backs which reflected their light until the room was as
bright as day. There in the mirror was the brilliant chamber, the deep
red ottoman, and the single figure in its gauzy dress of white and
silver. She leaned upon her elbow, admiring the deep tint of her own
eyes with their long dark lashes, the white curve of her throat, and the
perfect oval of her face. She examined it all carefully, keenly, as
though it were her rival that lay before her, but nowhere could she see
a scratch of Time's malicious nails. She still had her beauty, then.
And if it had once won the king, why should it not suffice to hold him?
Of course it would do so. She reproached herself fo