Temporal Power: A Study in Supremacy

by Marie Corelli

CHAPTER XXVI. — “ONE WAY,—ONE WOMAN!”

For several days after the foregoing events, the editors and proprietors of newspapers had more than enough ‘copy’ to keep them busy. The narrow escape of the King from assassination, followed by his excommunication from the Church, worked a curious effect on the minds of the populace, who were somewhat bewildered and uncertain as to the possible undercurrent of political meaning flowing beneath the conjunction of these two events; and their feelings were intensified by the announcement that the youth who had attempted the monarch’s life,—being proved as suffering from hereditary brain disease,—had received a free pardon, and was placed in a suitable home for the treatment of such cases, under careful restraint and medical supervision. The tide of popular opinion was now divided into two ways,—for, and against their Sovereign-ruler. By far the larger half were against;—but the ban pronounced upon him by the Pope had the effect of making even this disaffected portion inclined to consider him more favourably,—seeing that the Church’s punishment had fallen upon him, apparently because he had done his duty, as a king, by granting the earnest petitions of thousands of his subjects. David Jost, who had always made a point of flattering Royalty in all its forms, now let his pen go with a complete passion of toadyism, such as disgraced certain writers in Great Britain during the reigns of the pernicious and vicious Georges,—and, seeing the continued success of the rival journal which the King had personally favoured, he trimmed his sails to the Court breeze, and dropped the Church party as though it had burned his fingers. But he found various channels on which he had previously relied for information, rigorously closed to him. He had written many times to the Marquis de Lutera to ask if the report of his having sent in his resignation was correct,—but he had received no answer. He had called over and over again on Carl Pérousse, hoping to obtain a few minutes’ conversation with him, but had been denied an interview. Cogitating upon these changes,—which imported much,—and wishing over and over again that he had been born an Englishman, so that by the insidious flattery of Royalty he might obtain a peerage,—as a certain Jew associate of his concerned in the same business in London, had recently succeeded in doing,—he decided that the wisest course to follow was to continue to ‘butter’ the King;—hence he laid it on with a thick brush, wherever the grease of hypocrisy could show off best. But work as he would, the ‘shares’ in his journalistic concerns were steadily going down,—none of his numerous magazines or ‘half-penny rags,’ paid so well as they had hitherto done; while the one paper which had lately been so prominently used by the King, continued to prosper, the public having now learned to accept with avidity and eagerness the brilliant articles which bore the signature of Pasquin Leroy, as though they were somewhat of a new political gospel. The charm of mystery intensified this new writer’s reputation. He was never seen in ‘fashionable’ society,—no ‘fashionable’ person appeared to know him,—and the general impression was that he resided altogether out of the country. Only the members of the Revolutionary Committee were aware that he was one of them, and recognised his work as part of the carrying out of his sworn bond. He had grown to be almost the right hand of Sergius Thord; wherever Thord sought supporters, he helped to obtain them,—wherever the sick and needy, the desolate and distressed, required aid, he somehow managed to secure it,—and next to Thord,—and of course Lotys,—he was the idol of the Socialist centre. He never spoke in public,—he seldom appeared at mass meetings; but his influence was always felt; and he made himself and his work almost a necessity to the Cause. The action of Lotys in saving the life of the King, had created considerable discussion among the Revolutionists, not unmixed with anger. When she first appeared among them after the incident, with her arm in a sling, she was greeted with mingled cheers and groans, to neither of which she paid the slightest attention. She took her seat at the head of the Committee table as usual, with her customary indifference and grace, and appeared deaf to the conflicting murmurs around her,—till, as they grew louder and more complaining and insistent, she raised her head and sent the lightning flash of her blue eyes down the double line of men with a sweeping scorn that instantly silenced them.

“What do you seek from me?” she demanded;—“Why do you clamour like babes for something you cannot get,—my obedience?”

They looked shamefacedly at one another,—then at Sergius Thord and Pasquin Leroy, who sat side by side at the lower end of the table. Max Graub and Axel Regor, Leroy’s two comrades, were for once absent; but they had sent suitable and satisfactory excuses. Thord’s brows were heavy and lowering,—his eyes were wild and unrestful, and his attitude and expression were such as caused Leroy to watch him with a little more than his usual close attention. Seeing that his companions expected him to answer Lotys before them all, he spoke with evident effort.

“You make a difficult demand upon us, Lotys,” he said slowly, “if you wish us to explain the stormy nature of our greeting to you this evening. You might surely have understood it without a question! For we are compelled to blame you;—you who have never till now deserved blame,—for the folly of your action in exposing your own life to save that of the King! The one is valuable to us—the other is nothing to us! Besides, you have trespassed against the Seventh Rule of our Order—which solemnly pledges us to ‘destroy the present monarchy’!”

“Ah!” said Lotys, “And is it part of the oath that the monarchy should be destroyed by murder without warning? You know it is not! You know that there is nothing more dastardly, more cowardly, more utterly loathsome and contemptible than to kill a man defenceless and unarmed! We speak of a Monarchy, not a King;—not one single individual,—for if he were killed, he has three sons to come after him. You have called me the Soul of an Ideal—good! But I am not, and will not be the Soul of a Murder-Committee!”

“Well spoken!” said Johan Zegota, looking up from some papers which he, as secretary to the Society, had been docketing for the convenience of Thord’s perusal; “But do not forget, brave Lotys, that the very next meeting we hold is the annual one, in which we draw lots for the ‘happy dispatch’ of traitors and false rulers; and that this year the name of the King is among them!”

Lotys grew a shade paler, but she replied at once and dauntlessly.

“I do not forget it! But if lots are cast and traitors doomed,—it is part of our procedure to give any such doomed man six months’ steady and repeated warning, that he may have time to repent of his mistakes and remedy them, so that haply he may still be spared;—and also that he may take heed to arm himself, that he do not die defenceless. Had I not saved the King, his death would have been set down to us, and our work! Any one of you might have been accused of influencing the crazy boy who attempted the deed,—and it is quite possible our meetings would have been suppressed, and all our work fatally hindered,—if not entirely stopped. Foolish children! You should thank me, not blame me!—but you are blind children all, and cannot even see where you have been faithfully served by your faithfullest friend!”

At these words a new light appeared to break on the minds of all present—a light that was reflected in their eager and animated faces. The knotted line of Thord’s brooding brows smoothed itself gradually away.

“Was that indeed your thought, Lotys,” he asked gently, almost tenderly—“Was it for our sakes and for us alone, that you saved the King?”

At that instant Pasquin Leroy turned his eyes, which till now had been intent on watching Thord, to the other end of the table where the fine, compact woman’s head, framed in its autumn-gold hair, was silhouetted against the dark background of the wall behind her like a cameo. His gaze met hers,—and a vague look of fear and pain flashed over her face, as a faint touch of colour reddened her cheeks.

“I am not accustomed to repeat my words, Sergius Thord!” she answered coldly; “I have said my say!”

Looks were exchanged, and there was a silence.

“If we doubt Lotys, we doubt the very spirit of ourselves!” said Pasquin Leroy, his rich voice thrilling with unwonted emotion; “Sergius—and comrades all! If you will hear me, and believe me,—you may take my word for it, she has run the risk of death for Us!—and has saved Us from false accusation, and Government interference! To wrong Lotys by so much as a thought, is to wrong the truest woman God ever made!”

A wild shout answered him,—and moved by one impulse, the whole body of men rose to their feet and drank “to the health and honour of Lotys!” with acclamation, many of them afterwards coming round to where she sat, and kneeling to kiss her hand and ask her pardon for their momentary doubt of her, in the excitement and enthusiasm of their souls. But Lotys herself sat very silent,—almost as silent as Sergius Thord, who, though he drank the toast, remained moody and abstracted.

When the company dispersed that night, each man present was carefully reminded by the secretary, Johan Zegota, that unless the most serious illness or misfortune intervened, every one must attend the next meeting, as it was the yearly “Day of Fate.” Pasquin Leroy was told that his two friends, Max Graub and Axel Regor must be with him, and he willingly made himself surety for their attendance.

“But,” said he, as he gave the promise, “what is the Day of Fate?”

Johan Zegota pointed a thin finger delicately at his heart.

“The Day of Fate,” he said, “is the day of punishment,—or Decision of Deaths. The names of several persons who have been found guilty of treachery,—or who otherwise do injury to the people by the manner of their life and conduct, are written down on slips of paper, which are folded up and put in one receptacle, together with two or three hundred blanks. They must be all men’s names,—we never make war on women. Against some of these names,—a Red Cross is placed. Whosoever draws a name, and finds the red cross against it, is bound to kill, within six months after due warning, the man therein mentioned. If he fortunately draws a blank then he is free for a year at least,—in spite of the fatal sign,—from the unpleasant duty of despatching a fellow mortal to the next world”—and here Zegota smiled quite cheerfully; “But if he draws a Name,—and at the same time sees the red cross against it, then he is bound by his oath to us to—do his duty!”

Leroy nodded, and appeared in no wise dismayed at the ominous suggestion implied.

“How if our friend Zouche were to draw the fatal sign,” he said; “Would he perform his allotted task, think you?”

“Most thoroughly!” replied Zegota, still smiling.

And with that, they separated.

Meanwhile, during the constant change and interchange of conflicting rumours, some of which appeared to have foundation in fact, and others which rapidly dispersed themselves as fiction, there could be no doubt whatever of the growing unpopularity of the Government in power. Little by little, drop by drop, there oozed out the secrets of the “Pérousse Policy,” which was merely another name for Pérousse Self-aggrandisement. Little by little, certain facts were at first whispered, and then more loudly talked about, as to the nature of his financial speculations; and it was soon openly stated that in the formation of some of the larger companies, which were beginning to be run on the Gargantuan lines of the “American Trust" idea, he had enormous shares,—though these “Trusts” had been frequently denounced as a means of enslaving the country, and ruining certain trade-interests which he was in office to protect. Accusations began to be guardedly thrown out against him in the Senate, which he parried off with the cool and audacious skill of an expert fencer, knowing that for the immediate moment at least, he had a “majority” under his thumb. This majority was composed of persons who had unfortunately become involved in his toils, and were, therefore, naturally afraid of him;—yet it was evident, even to a superficial student of events, that if once the innuendoes against his probity as a statesman could be veraciously proved, this sense of intimidation among his supporters would be removed, and like the props set against a decaying house, their withdrawal would result in the ruin of the building. It was pretty well known that the Marquis de Lutera had sent in his resignation, but it was not at all certain whether the King was of a mind to accept it.

Things were in abeyance,—political and social matters whirled giddily towards chaos and confusion; and the numerous hurried Cabinet Councils that were convened, boded some perturbation among the governing heads of the State. From each and all of these meetings Ministers came away more gloomy and despondent in manner,—some shook their heads sorrowfully and spoke of “the King’s folly,”—others with considerable indignation flung out sudden invectives against “the King’s insolence!”—and between the two appellations, it was not easy to measure exactly the nature of the conduct which had deserved them. For the King himself made no alteration whatever in the outward character of his daily routine; he transacted business in the morning, lunched, sometimes with his family, sometimes with friends; drove in the afternoon, and showed himself punctiliously at different theatres once or twice in the evenings of the week. The only change more observant persons began to notice in his conduct was, that he had drawn the line of demarcation very strongly between those persons who by rank and worth, and nobility of life, merited his attention, and those who by mere Push and Pocket, sought to win his favour by that servile flattery and obsequiousness which are the trademarks of the plebeian and vulgarian. Quietly but firmly, he dropped the acquaintance of Jew sharks, lying in wait among the dirty pools of speculation;—with ease and absoluteness he ‘let go’ one by one, certain ladies of particularly elastic virtue, who fondly dreamed that they ‘managed’ him; and among these, to her infinite rage and despair, went Madame Vantine, wife of Vantine the winegrower, a yellow-haired, sensual “femelle d’homme,” whose extravagance in clothes, and reckless indecency in conversation, combined with the King’s amused notice, and the super-excellence of her husband’s wines, had for a brief period made her ‘the rage’ among a certain set of exceedingly dissolute individuals.

In place of this kind of riff-raff of “nouveaux riches,” and plutocrats, he began by degrees to form around himself a totally different entourage,—though he was careful to make his various changes slowly, so that they should not be too freely noticed and commented upon. Great nobles, whether possessed of vast wealth and estates, or altogether landless, were summoned to take their rightful positions at the Court, where Vantine the wine-grower, and Jost the Jew, no more obtained admittance;—men of science, letters and learning, were sought out and honoured in various ways, their wives and daughters receiving special marks of the Royal attention and favour; and round the icy and statuesque beauty of the Queen soon gathered a brilliant bevy of the real world of women, not the half-world of the ‘femme galante’ which having long held sway over the Crown Prince while Heir-Apparent to the Throne, judged itself almost as a necessary, and even becoming, appendage to his larger responsibility and state as King. These excellent changes, beneficial and elevating to the social atmosphere generally, could not of course be effected without considerable trouble and heart-burning, in the directions where certain persons had received their dismissal from such favour as they had previously held at Court. The dismissed ones thirsted with a desire for vengeance, and took every opportunity to inflame the passions of their own particular set against the King, some of them openly declaring their readiness to side with the Revolutionary party, and help it to power. But over the seething volcano of discontent, the tide of fashion moved as usual, to all outward appearances tranquil, and absorbed in trivialities of the latest description; and though many talked, few dreamed that the mind of the country, growing more compressed in thought, and inflammable in nature every day, was rapidly becoming like a huge magazine of gunpowder or dynamite, which at a spark would explode into that periodically recurring fire-of-cleansing called Revolution.

Weighted with many thoughts, Sir Roger de Launay, whose taciturn and easy temperament disinclined him for argument and kept him aloof from discussion whenever he could avoid it, sat alone one evening in his own room which adjoined the King’s library, writing a few special letters for his Majesty which were of too friendly a nature to be dealt with in the curt official manner of the private secretary. Once or twice he had risen and drawn aside the dividing curtain between himself and the King’s apartment to see if his Royal master had entered; but the room remained empty, though it was long past eleven at night. He looked every now and again at a small clock which ticked with a quick intrusive cheerfulness on his desk,—then with a slight sigh resumed his work. Letter after letter was written and sealed, and he was getting to the end of his correspondence, when a tap at the door disturbed him, and his sister Teresa, the Queen’s lady-in-waiting, entered.

“Is the King within?” she asked softly, moving almost on tiptoe as she came.

Sir Roger shook his head.

“He has been absent for some time,” he replied,—then after a pause—“But what are you here for, Teresa? This is not your department!” and he took her hand kindly, noticing with some concern that there were tears in her large dark eyes;—“Is anything wrong?”

“Nothing! That is,—nothing that I have any right to imagine—or to guess. But—” and here she seemed a little confused—“I am commanded by the Queen to summon you to her presence if,—if the King has not returned!”

He rose at once, looking perplexed. Teresa watched him anxiously, and the expression of his face did not tend to reassure her.

“Roger,” she began timidly—“Would you not tell me,—might I not know something of this mystery? Might I not be trusted?”

His languid eyes flashed with a sudden tenderness, as from his great and stately height he looked down upon her pretty shrinking figure.

“Poor little Teresa!” he murmured playfully; “What is the matter? What mystery are you talking about?”

“You know—you must know!” answered Teresa, clasping her hands with a gesture of entreaty; “There is something wrong, I am sure! Why is the King so often absent—when all the household suppose him to be with the Queen?—or in his private library there?” and she pointed to the curtained-off Royal sanctum beyond.

“Why does the Queen herself give it out that he is with her, when he is not? Why does he enter the Queen’s corridor sometimes quite late at night by the private battlement-stair? Does it not seem very strange? And since he was so nearly assassinated, his absences have been more frequent than ever!”

Sir Roger pulled his long fair moustache meditatively between his fingers.

“When you were a little girl, Teresa, you must have been told the story of Blue-beard;” he said; “Now take my advice!—and do not try to open forbidden doors with your tiny golden key of curiosity!”

Teresa’s cheeks flushed a pretty rose pink.

“I am not curious;” she said, with an air of hauteur; “And indeed I am far too loyal to say anything to anyone but to you, of what seems so new and strange. Besides—the Queen has forbidden me—only it is just because of the Queen—” here she stopped hesitatingly.

“Because of the Queen?” echoed Sir Roger; “Why?”

“She is unhappy!” said Teresa.

A smile,—somewhat bitter,—crossed De Launay’s face.

“Unhappy!” he repeated; “She! You mistake her, little girl! She does not know what it is to be unhappy; nothing so weak and slight as poor humanity affects the shining iceberg of her soul! For it is an iceberg, Teresa! The sun shines on it all day, fierce and hot, and never moves or melts one glittering particle!”

He spoke with a concentrated passion of melancholy, and Teresa trembled a little. She knew, as no one else did, the intense and despairing love that had corroded her brother’s life ever since the Queen had been brought home to the kingdom in all her exquisite maiden beauty, as bride of the Heir-Apparent. Such love terrified her; she did not understand it. She knew it was hopeless,—she felt it was disloyal,—and yet—it was love!—and her brother was one of the truest and noblest of gentlemen, devoted to the King’s service, and incapable of a mean or a treacherous act. The position was quite incomprehensible to her, for she was not thoughtful enough to analyse it,—and she had no experience of the tender passion herself, to aid her in sympathetically considering its many moods, sorrows, and inexplicable martyrdoms of mind-torture. She contented herself now with repeating her former assertion.

“She is unhappy,—I am sure she is! You may call her an iceberg, if you like, Roger!—men have such odd names for the women they are unable to understand! But I have seen the iceberg shed tears very often lately!”

He looked at her, surprised.

“You have? Then we may expect the Pallas Athene to weep in marble? Well! What did you say, Teresa? That her Majesty commanded my presence, if the King had not returned?”

Teresa nodded assent. She was a little worried—her brother’s face looked worn and pale, and he seemed moved beyond himself. She watched him nervously as he pushed aside the dividing curtain, and looked into the adjoining room. It was still vacant. The window stood open, and the line of the sea, glittering in the moon, shone far off like a string of jewels,—while the perfume of heliotrope and lilies came floating in deliciously on the cool night-breeze. Satisfied that there was as yet no sign of his Royal master, he turned back again,—and stooping his tall head, kissed the charming girl, whose anxious and timid looks betrayed her inward anxiety.

“I am ready, Teresa!” he said cheerfully; “Lead the way!”

She glided quickly on before him, along an inner passage leading to the Queen’s apartments. Arriving at one particular door, she opened it noiselessly, and with a warning finger laid on her lips, went in softly,—Sir Roger following. The light of rose-shaded waxen tapers which were reflected a dozen times in the silver-framed mirrors that rose up to the ceiling from banks of flowers below, shed a fairy-like radiance on the figure of the Queen, who, seated at a reading-table, with one hand buried in the loosened waves of her hair, seemed absorbed in the close study of a book. A straight white robe of thick creamy satin flowed round her perfect form,—it was slightly open at the throat, and softened with a drifting snow of lace, in which one or two great jewels sparkled. As Sir Roger approached her with his usual formal salute,—she turned swiftly round with an air of scarcely-concealed impatience.

“Where is the King?” she demanded.

Startled at the sudden peremptory manner of her question, Sir Roger hesitated,—for the moment taken quite aback.

“Did I not tell you,” she went on, in the same imperious tone; “that I made you responsible for his safety? Yet—though you were by his side at the time—you could not shield him from attempted assassination! That was left,—to a woman!”

Her breast heaved—her eyes flashed glorious lightning,—she looked altogether transformed.

Had a thunder-bolt fallen through the painted ceiling at Sir Roger’s feet, he could scarcely have been more astounded.

“Madam!” he stammered,—and then as the light of her eyes swept over him, with a concentration of scorn and passion such as he had never seen in them, he grew deadly pale.

“Who, and what is this woman?” she went on; “Why was it given to her to save the King’s life, while you stood by? Why was she brought to the Palace to be attended like some princess,—and then taken away secretly before I could see her? Lotys is her name—I know it by heart!”

Like twinkling stars, the jewels in her lace scintillated with the quick panting of her breath.

“The King is absent,”—she continued—“as usual;—but why are you not with him, also as usual? Answer me!”

“Madam,” said De Launay, slowly; “For some few days past his Majesty has absolutely forbidden me to attend him. To carry out your commands I should be forced to disobey his!”

She looked at him in a suppressed passion of enquiry.

“Then—is he alone?” she asked.

“Madam, I regret to say—he is quite alone!”

She rose, and paced once up and down the room, a superb figure of mingled rage and pride, and humiliation, all comingled. Her eyes lighted on Teresa, who had timorously withdrawn to a corner of the apartment where she stood apparently busied in arranging some blossoms that had fallen too far out of the crystal vase in which they were set.

“Teresa, you can leave us!” she said suddenly; “I will speak to Sir Roger alone.”

With a nervous glance at her brother, who stood mute, his head slightly bent, himself immovable as a figure of stone, Teresa curtseyed and withdrew.

The Queen stood haughtily erect,—her white robes trailing around her,—her exquisite face transfigured into a far grander beauty than had ever been seen upon it, by some pent-up emotion which to Sir Roger was well-nigh inexplicable. His heart beat thickly; he could almost hear its heavy pulsations, and he kept his eyes lowered, lest she should read too clearly in them the adoration of a lifetime.

“Sir Roger, speak plainly,” she said, “and speak the truth! Some little time ago you said it was wrong for me to shut out from my sight, my heart, my soul, the ugly side of Nature. I have remedied that fault! I am looking at the ugly side of Nature now,—in myself! The rebellious side—the passionate, fierce, betrayed side! I trusted you with the safety of the King!”

“Madam, he is safe!” said Sir Roger quietly;—“I can guarantee upon my life that he is with those who will defend him far more thoroughly than I could ever do! It is better to have a hundred protectors than one!”

“Oh, I know what you would imply!” she answered, impatiently; “I understand, thus far, from what he himself has told me. But—there is something else, something else! Something that portends far closer and more intimate danger to him—”

She paused, apparently uncertain how to go on, and moving back to her chair, sat down.

“If you are the man I have imagined you to be,” she continued, in deliberate accents; “You perfectly know—you perfectly understand what I mean!”

Sir Roger raised his head and looked her bravely in the eyes.

“You would imply, Madam, that one, who like myself has been conscious of a great passion for many years, should be able to recognise the signs of it in others! Your Majesty is right! Once you expressed to me a wonder as to what it was like ‘to feel.’ If that experience has come to you now, I cannot but rejoice,—even while I grieve to think that you must endure pain at the discovery. Yet it is only from the pierced earth that the flowers can bloom,—and it may be you will have more mercy for others, when you yourself are wounded!”

She was silent.

He drew a step nearer.

“You wish me to speak plainly?” he continued in a lower tone. “You give me leave to express the lurking thought which is in your own heart?”

She gave a slight inclination of her head, and he went on.

“You assume danger for the King,—but not danger from the knife of the assassin—or from the schemes of revolutionists! You judge him—as I do—to be in the grasp of the greatest Force which exists in the universe! The force against which there is, and can be no opposition!—a force, which if it once binds even a king—makes of him a life-prisoner, and turns mere ‘temporal power’ to nothingness; upsetting thrones, destroying kingdoms, and beating down the very Church itself in the way of its desires—and that force is—Love!”

She started violently,—then controlled herself.

“You waste your eloquence!” she said coldly; “What you speak of, I do not understand. I do not believe in Love!”

“Or jealousy?”

The words sprang from his lips almost unconsciously, and like a magnificent animal who has been suddenly stung, she sprang upright.

“How dare you!” she said in low, vibrating accents—“How dare you!”

Sir Roger’s breath came quick and fast,—but he was a strong man with a strong will, and he maintained his attitude of quiet resolution.

“Madam!—My Queen!—forgive me!” he said; “But as your humblest friend—your faithful servant!—let me have my say with you now—and then—if you will—condemn me to perpetual silence! You despise Love, you say! Yes—because you have only seen its poor imitations! The King’s light gallantries,—his sins of body, which in many cases are not sins of mind, have disgusted you with its very name! The King has loved—or can love—so you think,—many, or any, women! Ah! No—no! Pardon me, dearest Majesty! A man’s desire may lead him through devious ways both vile and vicious,—but a man’s love leads only one way to one woman! Believe it! For even so, I have loved one woman these many years!—and even so—I greatly fear—the King loves one woman now!”

Rigid as a figure of marble, she looked at him. He met her eyes calmly.

“Your Majesty asked me for the truth;” he said; “I have spoken it!”

Her lips parted in a cold, strained little smile.

“And—you—think,” she said slowly; “that I—I am what you call ‘jealous’ of this ‘one woman’? Had jealousy been in my nature, it would have been provoked sufficiently often since my marriage!”

“Madam,” responded Sir Roger humbly; “If I may dare to say so to your Majesty, it is not possible to a noble woman to be jealous of a man’s mere humours of desire! But of Love—Love, the crown, the glory and supremacy of life,—who, with a human heart and human blood, would not be jealous? Who would not give kingdoms, thrones, ay, Heaven itself, if it were not in itself Heaven, for its rapturous oblivion of sorrow, and its full measure of joy!”

A dead silence fell between them, only disturbed by a small silver chime in the distance, striking midnight.

The Queen again seated herself, and drew her book towards her. Then raising her lovely unfathomable eyes, she looked at the tall stately figure of the man before her with a slight touch of pity and pathos.

“Possibly you may be right,” she said slowly, “Possibly wrong! But I do not doubt that you yourself personally ‘feel’ all that you express,—and—that you are faithful!”

Here she extended her hand. Sir Roger bowed low over it, and kissed its delicate smoothness with careful coldness. As she withdrew it again, she said in a low dreamy, half questioning tone:

“The woman’s name is Lotys?”

Silently Sir Roger bent his head in assent.

“A man’s love leads only one way—to one woman! And in this particular case that woman is—Lotys!” she said, with a little musing scorn, as of herself,—“Strange!”

She laid her hand on the bell which at a touch would summon back her lady-in-waiting. “You have served me well, Sir Roger, albeit somewhat roughly——”

He gave a low exclamation of regret.

“Roughly, Madam?”

A smile, sudden and sweet, which transfigured her usually passionless features into an almost angelic loveliness, lit up her mouth and eyes.

“Yes—roughly! But no matter! I pardon you freely! Good-night!”

“Good-night to your Majesty!” And as he stepped backward from her presence, she rang for Teresa, who at once entered.

“Our excommunication from the Church sits lightly upon us, Sir Roger, does it not?” said the Queen then, almost playfully; “You must know that we say our prayers as of old, and we still believe God hears us!”

“Surely, Madam,” he replied, “God must hear all prayers when they are pure and honest!”

“Truly, I think so,” she responded, laying one hand tenderly on Teresa’s hair, as the girl caressingly knelt beside her. “And—so, despite lack of priestcraft,—we shall continue to pray,—in these uncertain and dangerous times,—that all may be well for the country,—the people, and—the King! Good-night!”

Again Sir Roger bowed, and this time altogether withdrew. He was strung up to a pitch of intense excitement; the brief interview had been a most trying one for him,—though there was a warm glow at his heart, assuring him that he had done well. His suspicion that the King had admired, and had sought out Lotys since the day she saved him from assassination, had a very strong foundation in fact;—much stronger indeed than was at present requisite to admit or to declare. But the whole matter was a source of the greatest anxiety to De Launay, who, in his strong love for his Royal master, found it often difficult to conceal his apprehension,—and who was in a large measure relieved to feel that the Queen had guessed something of it, and shared in his sentiments. He now re-entered his room, and on doing so at once perceived that the King had returned. But his Majesty was busy writing, and did not raise his head from his papers, even when Sir Roger noiselessly entered and laid some letters on the table. His complete abstraction in his work was a sign that he did not wish to be disturbed or spoken to;—and Sir Roger, taking the hint, retired again in silence.

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