he scum, the
canaille, the demons of the earth. Had our King, had our nobility, been
men with the old fire, they would not have stood it. They were worn out
with centuries of catering to themselves. Give me a man who will shape
his life and live it with all his strength. I am tired of sham and
pretence, of cynical wit, of mocking at the real things of life, of
pride, vain-glory, and hypocrisy. Give me a man whose existence means
something."

Was she thinking of the Englishman of whom she had spoken? Delicacy
forbade my asking the question. He had been a man, according to her own
testimony. Where was he now? Her voice had a ring of earnestness in it
I had never heard before, and this arraignment of her own life and of her
old friends surprised me. Now she seemed lost in a revery, from which I
forebore to arouse her.

"I have often tried to picture your life," I said at last.

"You?" she answered, turning her head quickly.

"Ever since I first saw the miniature," I said. "Monsieur de St. Gre
told me some things, and afterwards I read 'Le Mariage de Figaro,' and
some novels, and some memoirs of the old courts which I got in
Philadelphia last winter. I used to think of you as I rode over the
mountains, as I sat reading in my room of an evening. I used to picture
you in the palaces amusing the Queen and making the Cardinals laugh. And
then I used to wonder--what became of you--and whether--" I hesitated,
overwhelmed by a sudden confusion, for she was gazing at me fixedly with
a look I did not understand.

"You used to think of that?" she said.

"I never thought to see you," I answered.

Laughter came into her eyes, and I knew that I had not vexed her. But I
had spoken stupidly, and I reddened.

"I had a quick tongue," she said, as though to cover my confusion. "I
have it yet. In those days misfortune had not curbed it. I had not
learned to be charitable. When I was a child I used to ride with my
father to the hunts at St. Gre, and I was too ready to pick out the
weaknesses of his guests. If one of the company had a trick or a
mannerism, I never failed to catch it. People used to ask me what I
thought of such and such a person, and that was bad for me. I saw their
failings and pretensions, but I ignored my own. It was the same at
Abbaye aux Bois, the convent where I was taught. When I was presented to
her Majesty I saw why people hated her. They did not understand her.
She was a woman with a large heart, with charit