De Bernis went on tranquilly: "At that instant all my vague conjectures and my unconscious suspicions suddenly leaped together into a certainty of knowledge. Need I add, my friends, that, as a man and a poet, I was disgusted with all the lost opportunities, but still enraptured with the glowing future? But, alas! I soon discovered that my goddess—M. l'Abbé Devries, as I punctiliously called her—was as unapproachable as she was irreproachable. This I came to realize gradually, and by means of repeated failures in small advances. I was still, fortunately, too careful to betray myself. It was she who proposed our pilgrimages into that most unsavory of holes, the Court of Miracles. Naturally I acquiesced, with the utmost eagerness, to the proposal of continuing in her society for two weeks more. From here I went for her every morning. I left her every evening to return hither. By degrees I became madly in love with her mystery, and so, at length, with herself, for her self's sake. I would have squandered all my small fortune for a sight of her without her abbess dress. At every turn I was foiled, either by her or by her guardian, the incorruptible Jérôme. At last, a week ago, I became rash through desperation. I frankly approached this M. Jérôme, offered him one hundred louis d'or for her name, and five hundred if he would admit me secretly to her presence that evening. Actually the fool refused me—refused me stolidly, and at length with so much vigor of purpose that I desisted from the attempt. The next morning—the next morning—by ten thousand devils!—she was gone! I know not how, I know not where. I know not if the old man warned her of danger in my presence, or if she went of her own adorable accord. In fine, I love the lady abbess of an undreamed-of convent, I love a mad-cap demoiselle of I know not what château, the siren of an undiscovered Venusberg, the angel of a heaven too high. Now, Coyer, you have learned the romance. Show me, if you have pity for the stricken, the road—to knowledge and to recovery."
At the close of his recital de Bernis' expression did not accord with his words. His tone was irritated, and the displeasure in it was caused as much by the failure of Coyer to appear interested as it was that the relation of his adventure recalled his hopeless defeat at the hands of a member of the sex over whom de Bernis loved to feel himself conqueror. Therefore he finished his tea in silence, and took three hasty and inelegant pinches of snuff.
St. Perle was troubled at the doubtful propriety of the story related, in which he had been too much interested to refuse to listen. He now folded his hands resignedly, and meditated a little lecture to come a day or two hence.
The Abbé Coyer was still indifferent, or apparently so. He stirred his tea and stifled a yawn before he remarked, casually: "Your road to knowledge, de Bernis, is also that to Marly, where I trust you will recover your sang-froid in the presence of your inamorata, who happens to be Mme. la Marquise de Coigny. You will meet her to-night. Come, the coach is at the door."
His Majesty, who had been more than usually bored during the past week, occupied his mind during the Sunday-morning sermon in thinking over all the grievances of kinghood, the uselessness of affairs of state, and the possibilities of some amusement on the morrow as recompense for the prayers of to-day. In the afternoon he sought his Châteauroux, and, happily finding her Claudeless, asked her aid in planning a diversion. Madame, with more tact than originality—in which factor her nature was lacking—proposed a hunt at Sénart in the morning, a sleighing-party from the forest to Marly in the afternoon, a supper and salon at that stiff château in the evening. His Majesty received the idea graciously, since it did away with any possibility of morning mass; and so, though he remarked later that he preferred Choisy to Marly, and madame alone to madame's salons, the programme was carried out as arranged, and the King seemed, in the morning at least, to be having a very good time, indeed.
Late in the afternoon a long procession of sleighs stopped, one by one, at the open portals of the great Louis' favorite retreat. Their occupants were chilly, tired, and hungry. Nevertheless, the Salle des Cardinaux presented a brilliant appearance when, an hour later, the company descended, in fresh and costly toilets, from the upper chambers to the supper-room.
The first course of the evening meal was served at six. It was a less elaborate affair than had been the custom under the old régime; but surely no man who had not inherited the appetite of a Louis XIV. could have complained of a scarcity in the number of dishes set forth. The company had apparently forgotten its weariness. The room rang with laughter; the air was alive with conversation, with toasts, with the relating of anecdotes, with snatches of verse, with low-voiced compliments; and the candle-light was dimmed by the flash of diamonds and the sparkle of champagne.
At the head of the first table sat the King—kingship dropped for the evening. Upon his right hand, more royal than her liege, was the Châteauroux; on his left, through some whim of his own devising, sat Mme. de Gontaut, who had once rivalled the Duchess for her position, and came dangerously near to winning it. Louis was supposed to be not over-fond of this lady, who possessed that worst of all feminine attributes, an indiscreet tongue. But to-night he was fanning her long-smouldering hopes with such a breeze of devotion that the Duchess, seeing, first of any, the newly rising flame, openly showed her anger and disgust by turning her back upon the King to talk inanities with d'Epernon, her neighbor.
By the time that the first course was over madame was exceedingly uncomfortable. Never, since the beginning of her reign, had she known the King to treat her so inconsiderately. Once or twice, from beneath her eyelids, she glanced at her rival. Mme. de Gontaut was radiant. She was racking her brain, she was tearing her nerves, to keep Louis entertained for an hour—one little hour—more. She was not a pretty woman, this Gontaut; but Marie Anne de Mailly perceived, with a pang, that she could carry off a kind of light espièglerie, which was amusing to the King because of its novelty. The glance of the Châteauroux shifted to Louis' face. His Majesty was leaning to the left, his blue eyes brilliant, his lips curved into the most charming of smiles, his hands, which sparkled with jewels, lying close beside those of the other woman. La Châteauroux forgot d'Epernon while she watched the hands. The King drummed lightly on the table. He was repeating an animated bit of gossip to his companion. His head was thrown back, and a curious smile lurked in his face. Presently his eyes, also, fell upon his hand. One of the rings that he wore was a solitaire ruby of great value, set in a band of finely chased gold. Still smiling, he slipped the ring from his finger, and contemplated it for an instant, knowing well how two women were watching him. He was not usually prodigal of gifts, this most Christian king. But this time there was a score to be paid off, a score of jealousy; and revenge is worth more than rubies. Louis leaned forward, still speaking, gently took Mme. de Gontaut's hand from the table, and slipped upon its third finger the ring he had been wearing.
"Oh, Sire!" murmured the woman, her heart throbbing with a wild hope.