“And to see M. de Maxwell too. I should like you to see him. I assure you one does not see such a man every day. He has such brown eyes; they do not sparkle, but they are deep. He has lovely hands, as well cared for as a woman's, but strong and masterful, I am sure. He has a fine foot and a well-turned leg. That is nearly all—except his smile; he smiles, and you think he is smiling for you alone—and when he speaks, you are sure of it! Such a low, sweet voice! You are always certain he is never thinking of any one else when you are listening to it. And he dresses—plainly, perhaps—but it is perfection for him. But there—I must run; Denis has been at the door for an hour,” and, kissing me affectionately, she hurried off.
It was well for me she did so, for I could not have listened to her light-hearted babble longer without betraying myself. When I closed the door behind her, and had spent half an hour with Mme. de Sarennes, I regained my room overwhelmed by the storm of emotions raised within me. “Oh, why cannot I see him, I, of all women in the world?” I cried, aloud, and the words set free my tears to relieve me. As I regained control of myself I caught sight of Angélique's pretty fan, on my table, forgotten in her hurry; and the moment I saw it a plan flashed before me, and I determined to see with my own eyes what I had so long pictured in my heart.
Bathing my face until every trace of my outburst was removed, I dressed myself, and taking a large blue cloak with a hood, which might be worn by either a lady or her servant, I picked up the fan and stole quietly out into the street.
It was a beautiful, soft night, without a moon, and I went down by the rue St. Jean and the Palace Hill without interruption, and, passing beyond the walls, went straight to the Intendance, which was all aglow with light, and surrounded by a gaping crowd.
Quickly passing through the people, and saying to the grenadier on guard at the gate, “For Mademoiselle de Sarennes,” I was admitted to the court-yard, and passed the lackeys at the entrance with the same password.
Singling out one who looked civil, I drew him aside.
“I bring this fan for Mademoiselle de Sarennes, but I wish, now that I am here, to have a look at the ball. Is there any place where I can go besides the gallery?”
“Perfectly, mademoiselle; I can shew you just the place. You were lucky in coming to me. Do you know me?”
“No,” I answered, willing to flatter him; “but you look as if you would know what I want.”
“Aha!” he exclaimed, pluming himself. “You were right, perfectly right. You have only to follow me,” and he led the way down the corridor, and, unlocking a door, he motioned me to enter. I drew back as a rush of music and voices and the warm air of the ball-room swept out.