t for her, then he should be for none. A jewelled knife lay among
her treasures, ready to her hand. She caught it up and rushed at the
cowering lad. Louis screamed and ran forward to stop her; but another
had been swifter than he. A woman had darted through the open door, and
had caught the upraised wrist. There was a moment's struggle, two
queenly figures swayed and strained, and the knife dropped between their
feet. The frightened Louis caught it up, and seizing his little son by
the wrist, he rushed from the apartment. Francoise de Montespan
staggered back against the ottoman to find herself confronted by the
steady eyes and set face of that other Francoise, the woman whose
presence fell like a shadow at every turn of her life.

"I have saved you, madame, from doing that which you would have been the
first to bewail."

"Saved me! It is you who have driven me to this!"

The fallen favourite leaned against the high back of the ottoman, her
hands resting behind her upon the curve of the velvet. Her lids were
half closed on her flashing eyes, and her lips just parted to show a
gleam of her white teeth. Here was the true Francoise de Montespan, a
feline creature crouching for a spring, very far from that humble and
soft-spoken Francoise who had won the king back by her gentle words.
Madame de Maintenon's hand had been cut in the struggle, and the blood
was dripping down from the end of her fingers, but neither woman had
time to spare a thought upon that. Her firm gray eyes were fixed upon
her former rival as one fixes them upon some weak and treacherous
creature who may be dominated by a stronger will.

"Yes, it is you who have driven me to this--you, whom I picked up when
you were hard pressed for a crust of bread or a cup of sour wine.
What had you? You had nothing--nothing except a name which was a
laughing-stock. And what did I give you? I gave you everything.
You know that I gave you everything. Money, position, the entrance to
the court. You had them all from me. And now you mock me!"

"Madame, I do not mock you. I pity you from the bottom of my heart."

"Pity? Ha! ha! A Mortemart is pitied by the widow Scarron!
Your pity may go where your gratitude is, and where your character is.
We shall be troubled with it no longer then."

"Your words do not pain me."

"I can believe that you are not sensitive."

"Not when my conscience is at ease."

"Ah! it has not troubled you, then?"

"Not upon