"Louis," Humphrey muttered, forgetting himself. "Louis. Her lord and king. So! so!"
"What does monsieur imagine?"
"There is one such I know of," Humphrey muttered thoughtfully, and, since he forgot himself, aloud, "One to whom that--that--those words--that name might well apply and----"
"And so there is," the girl said, looking into his eyes, while thinking how soft and clear they were. "I, too, know of one who is a Louis--handsome, all the world says--a lord--a king, what if she loves him?"
"Him! Whom?"
"Whom! Ah! What if she loves the one Louis. The one king. The king. It might well be so. She is fair enough to possess even a king's love."
"'Tis true," Humphrey said. "'Tis very true. In faith it is. It--it might be so. Perhaps you have guessed aright. Who shall say it is not he?"
Yet, while he threw dust in the eyes of the gossiping girl, he knew very well that it was not the portrait of Louis the king which lay upon that woman's breast by day and night; not the portrait of Louis the superb ruler of France--of, indeed, almost all Europe--but, instead, that other Louis whom, only last night, he had heard spoken of as the one who should, if all went well, undo the other.
"Sweetheart," he said, "my duty calls me now. I must away to the Duchess. Later, we will meet again. And, be not proud," putting his hand into his pocket and drawing forth a gold piece, "take this for spending. We will meet again."
The woman took the coin with a pretence of demur--though, it may be, that the demur was not all a pretence. For, in truth, she would, perhaps, have desired that in place of a piece of gold the donor should have said some more fine words to her, or looked softly once more into her eyes, or, instead of contenting himself with saying, "We will meet again," should have named a time and place for such a meeting.