Cyrène passed down her favourite oleander path at sunset to the great vinery in the Noailles garden. The oleanders were covered with their roseate blooms, and their beauty and that of the garden in the soft sunset light mysteriously deepened with an undefined regret the sadness and fears which were hers of late.
"Why do you not come to me, Germain? Why have you not at least written me a few words in reply to mine? Only a few words, my dear one—only the least line," she murmured to herself.
She passed on to the vinery, where sitting down under the interlaced green she became still more abstracted.
"Oh Germain, some great danger is above you. Who are those enemies of whom the Instrument of Vengeance spoke? What is this web of murder and madness in which they are involving you? I pray God to keep you safe, my love. Ah, what bliss to have you mine, mine, and be yours. At last, at last we shall have somewhere a sweet chez nous to ourselves."
The loveliness of the oleander blossoms and the sunset over the garden made a harmony with her dream. To the widow who had been no wife, the girl who had seen no girlhood, the child who had never had a home, the lady who was losing her life in gilded servitude, that dream was dear.
The sound of a silver bell broke in, the signal that she was in request by old Madame l'Etiquette. A sigh escaped her, and she hastened to the house.
To de Lotbinière, to have effected his point had not been enough. To humiliate Lecour with the ladies with whom he had ingratiated himself was yet, in the opinion of this vindicator of public interests, demanded by justice to society, so he had wended his way that afternoon to the Hôtel de Noailles and applied at the portal of the Maréchale. There he was kept waiting while his name was sent in.
"The person is not on my list," she said. "Present my regrets." Covering his irritation with a smiling face, as courtiers must ever learn to do, he asked for ink and paper and patiently wrote her on the spot a respectful and pointed warning on the danger to Cyrène. His missive struck the dominant chord in the breast of Madame.
"What," she cried on reading it "de Lincy a cheat! No questionable person shall ally himself with the royal blood of the Noailles and Montmorencys! This is what comes of relaxing the old rules, the old customs, and admitting new people. It is what comes of this Austrian Queen." Ah—she glanced around quickly to see that none but her lady-in-waiting heard those last words.
"Show the man in," she added. The lady-in-waiting transmitted the order. De Lotbinière appeared, and at Madame's request began his narrative.