It was understood that the twelve goddesses were to remain on their Olympus until Jove, otherwise his Majesty, made his appearance in the room. But it had occurred to no one that, in all probability, the King's entrance would be unobserved, since he, also, was to be disguised. This, unfortunately, was the case. Louis had no idea of ascending to a purple-and-gold position this evening. Thus the twelve dames posed upon their platform for an hour or more, speaking but seldom, keeping their eyes fastened close on the grand entrance, and longing mightily to join the gay throng about them, where they also might enter into all the little intrigues and mysteries that formed the amusement of such an affair.
Mme. d'Etioles was, whether by nature or cultivation, a remarkably graceful woman. As she moved slowly about the dais, each step was a classic pose, each movement as studied as it seemed careless. From her manner one would have imagined her as tranquilly happy as was the goddess whom she represented. In reality her heart palpitated with anger and mortification. She realized that the King must have arrived long before this. He was somewhere in that company which she looked upon, and from which, by means of this silly display, she was debarred. In gazing leisurely over the crowd, she was able to recognize many of the women and not a few of the men merely by their figures and their manner of walking. There was the Comtesse de Mailly, her all-but-successful rival, fluttering beside a warrior of Clovis' time. Diana shrugged enviously at Deborah's costume. It was made to represent a large white butterfly, or moth, perhaps. The vestment was of white silk crepe, figured with yellow. On her back were two huge wings of grayish gauze, faintly patterned in yellow, and glittering with silver spangles. Her head was crowned with a silver circlet, from which, in front, sprang two long, quivering "feelers" tipped with tiny diamonds that flashed like fireflies as they swayed up and down. The butterfly was presently approached by a slender figure in star-spangled, black gauze draperies, her head ornamented with a larger crescent than that which Diana wore. Mme. d'Etioles did not recognize this black-masked figure, but it was Victorine de Coigny who had chosen the sombre, commonplace raiment. Mme. d'Etioles beheld these two women accosted by a monk—Richelieu—who, later, with a humor of his own, exchanged his Capuchin dress for the red-and-black one of a devil. The helmeted warrior had turned to Mme. de Mailly with an evident invitation to dance. Mme. d'Etioles saw them go off together, and then brought her gaze slowly back towards the platform, encountering, as she did so, a pair of blue eyes that were looking earnestly at her from a white mask. Diana smiled graciously. The owner of the blue eyes emerged from the passing throng and advanced to the edge of the dais. He proved to be a tall, slender person, in the garb of a miller. On arriving at the platform he looked up at Diana, and said, pleasantly: "Surely the old Olympus never knew so fair a goddess."
Jeanne Poisson started. She recognized instantly that peculiar and undisguisable voice. Quickly taking command of the situation, she drew from her quiver a golden arrow, and, pointing it at him over her bow, began slowly to descend the steps.
"Beautiful huntress," cried the King, advancing nearer to her, "the arrows you discharge are fatal!"
Mme. d'Etioles returned the little missile to its place. Louis XV. was close beside her. With a quick, catlike movement, she raised one hand to her face. The white mask came off.
"Ah!" murmured his Majesty.
"Au revoir, Sire!" cried the audacious huntress.
The mask was slipped into place again. Diana, free at last, slipped into the throng, leaving her handkerchief (a serious bit of anachronism, considering her character) at the feet of the powdery miller.
Louis looked rather quizzically down at the lacy thing. He had hunted and been hunted many times before, but never just in this way. However, he was not a king to-night. Stooping down, he picked the costly offering from the floor and stood for a moment examining it. It bore no mark, but he needed none to assure him of the identity of its owner. Neither, perhaps, was he unaware of the light in which she regarded him. Ah, well! Generally a king is a king. Sometimes he is a miller. Smiling to himself, Louis tied a loose knot in the handkerchief and then hurried into the crowd in pursuit of the Diana, who had left Olympus for good. He was not obliged to go very far. She stood upon the outer edge of the open floor, watching the dancers. Between him and her was an open space of twenty feet. He raised his hand.
"Take care, your Majesty!" cried a daring voice from one of the sets. It was from the lips of a tall Capuchin monk.