St. Aulaire, pallid with consternation, stretched out an imploring hand to the King.  “Your Majesty,” he said, “’twas but a thoughtless jest, too idle to be believed or repeated.  Will Your Majesty not deign to remember that St. Aulaire’s life and sword have been ever at Your Majesty’s service?”

As the prostrate nobleman began to speak, the King hesitated, turned back, and looked perplexedly at him.  As he gazed, a look of indecision, of distaste and weariness, crept into his countenance.  All the passion, dignity, and just anger which had lit it up faded away.  The brief revelation of majesty was quenched, and the customary commonplace, vacant, good-natured expression held sway once more.

“Rise, Monsieur de St. Aulaire,” he said, wearily.  “We forgive you this unfortunate plaisanterie, since its execrable taste carries with it its own worst punishment.  But be careful, sir, how you offend again!” With a last glance of warning, which, however, had lost its severity, the King turned away, followed by the Due de Broglie, and, seeking the Queen, their Majesties retired very shortly.

With the Queen’s withdrawal, all the zest and animation of the function disappeared, too, and Mr. Calvert, wearying of the brilliant company, determined to leave the scene and stroll through the gardens.  He descended by the Grand Escalier des Ambassadeurs, up which he had come, and, passing out through the Marble Court, quickly found himself on the broad terrace beneath the windows of the Gallery of Mirrors.  From this, marble steps led down to a beautiful parterre, below which the Fountain of Latona played in the white moonlight.  Standing on the terrace, Calvert could see the marble nymph through the mist of spray flung upon her from the hideous gaping mouths of the gilded frogs lying along the edge of the basin.  ’Twas the story of Jupiter’s wrath against the Lyceans which the sculptor had told, and Calvert remembered it out of his Ovid.  Beyond this lovely fountain the green level of the tapis vert fell away to the great Bassin d’Appollon, where the sun-god disported himself among his Tritons, the foamy tops of the great jets of water blown from their shell-trumpets rising high in the air and scattered into spray by the night wind.

It was a scene not to be forgotten, and Mr. Calvert stood gazing at it a long while—­at the softly playing fountains and the sombre bosquets and the sculptured groups on every hand, showing faintly in the moonlight.  Fauns and satyrs peeped from the dense foliage.  Here there showed a Venus sculptured in some Ionian isle before ever Caesar and his cohorts had pressed the soil of Gallia beneath their Roman sandals; there, a Ganymede or a Ceres or a Minerva gleamed wan and beautiful; beneath an ilex-tree a Bacchus leaned lightly on his marble thyrsus.  It seemed as if all the hierarchy of Olympus had descended to dwell in this royal pleasure-ground at the bidding of the Roi Soleil.