“You are the very men,” he cried, again stretching out his hands in a welcoming French gesture.  “His Majesty was speaking of you not five minutes ago.  He is here, in the garden.  Shall I present you now?”

Father Jervis glanced at his friend.

“His Majesty is very kind——­” he began.

“Not a word more!  If you will follow me and wait an instant at the entrance, I will speak with His Majesty and bring you in.”

“I have not my ferraiuola—–­” began Monsignor.

“The King will excuse travellers,” smiled the Frenchman.

The entrance to the “King’s Garden” on this side passes beneath an arch of yew, and here the two waited.

Somewhere beyond the green walls they could hear talking, and now and again a burst of laughter.  Then the talking ceased, and they heard a single voice.

“In what language——­” began Monsignor Masterman nervously.

“Oh!  English, no doubt.  You can’t talk French?”

Monsignor shook his head.

“Not a hundred words,” he said.

Again came the quick footstep, and the French priest appeared, still gay, but with a certain solemnity.  “Come this way, gentlemen,” he said.  “The King will see you.” (He glanced at the prelate.) “You won’t forget to kneel, Monsignor.”

To the English prelate the scene that he saw, on emerging at last into the open space in the middle, protected by the ancient yews—­even though he should have been prepared for it by all that he had already seen—­simply once more dazed and stupefied him.

The centre of the space was occupied by a round pond, perhaps thirty yards across, of absolutely still water, and in this mirror, shaded by the masses of foliage overhead, was reflected a picture that might have been taken straight from some painting two hundred years old.  For, on the semicircle of marble seats that stood beyond the water, sat a company of figures dressed once more in all the bravery of real colour and splendour, as from days when men were not ashamed to use publicly and commonly these glittering gifts of God.

Monsignor hardly noticed the rest (there were perhaps twelve or fifteen all told, with half a dozen women amongst them); he looked only, as he came round the pond, at the central figure that advanced to meet him.  Twice he had seen him yesterday—­yet those occasions had been public.  But to see the King now, at ease amongst his friends, yet still royally dressed in his brilliant blue suit and feathered hat, with his tall cane—­to see the whole company, gay and brilliant, talking and laughing, taking their pleasure in the air before breakfast—­the whole thing somehow brought home to him the reality of what appeared to him as a change, more than had all the pomps and glories of the day before.  Splendour no longer seemed ceremonial, but natural.

Monsignor Allet was explaining something in rapid French in the King’s ear, and as the two came up, the face that listened smiled suddenly with intelligence.