As Claude had hesitated over the questions, so was Henri long in making reply. "I do not allow myself, Claude, to wonder over might-have-beens. There is a fate upon our family, I think. But of the three of our women who have gone her way, Marie is the fittest of them all for her place. Little Pauline—Félicité, we named her—her death—my God, I do not like to think of it! And poor, weak Louise—your brother loved her dearly, Claude. And he is dead, and she—is making her long penance in that great tomb of the Ursulines. Heigh-ho! Thank the good God, my cousin, that you have neither sister nor wife in this Court of France. There is not one of them can withstand the great temptation. Our times were not made for the women we love."
And for the rest of their walk both men thought upon these same last words, which, through Claude's head, at least, had begun to ring like a dark refrain of prophecy, of warning: "Our times were not made for the women we love."
It was half an hour past midnight when the Marquis pounded the knocker on the door of his hôtel by the Seine. It was opened with unusual readiness by the liveried porter, who betrayed some surprise at sight of those who waited to enter.
"Oh, my lord is not at Versailles!"
"As you see, we are here," returned Henri, adding, "My apartment is ready?"
"Certainly, Monsieur le Marquis' apartment is ready."
"And one for Monsieur le Comte?"
The servant bowed.
"Light us up, then. Claude, will you have supper?"
"No. Nothing more to-night."