Monseigneur called me down into the hall, as I stood picking the dead leaves from my rose-bushes for a pot-pourri. There was no one in the hall but himself. Well, of course there were a quantity of servitors and retainers, but they never count for anything. I mean, there was nobody that is anybody. He bade me come up to him, and he drew me close, kissed me on the forehead, and stroked down my hair.
"What will my cabbage say to what I have to tell her?" said he.
"Is it something pleasant, Monseigneur?" said I.
"Now, there thou posest me," he answered, "Yes,—in one light. No,—in another. And in which of the two lights thou wilt see it, I do not yet know."
I looked up into his face and waited.
"Dost thou like Messire Raymond de Montbeillard?"
"No, Monseigneur," I answered.
"No? Ha! then perchance thou wilt not like my news."
"Messire Raymond has something to do with it?"
"Every thing."