“Impossible, I repeat.  Although your name was sufficient for the doors of this house to be thrown open before you, yet in order to speak to any one here, except indeed to myself, a written order from the king is necessary.”

“Here is the order you require, madame,” replied Joyeuse, producing the letter that Henri had signed.

The superior read it and bowed.

“His majesty’s will shall be obeyed,” she said, “even when it is contrary to the will of Heaven.”

And she advanced toward the courtyard of the convent.

“You now perceive, madame,” said Joyeuse, courteously stopping her, “that I have right on my side; but I fear I may be under a mistake, and therefore may be abusing the permission I have received from the king.  Perhaps the lady may not be the one I am in search of; will you be kind enough to tell me how she came here, why she came, and by whom she was accompanied?”

“All that is useless, Monsieur le Duc,” replied the superior, “you are under no misapprehension for the lady, who arrived only this morning, after having been expected for the last fifteen days; this lady, I say, who was recommended by one who possesses the greatest authority over me, is indeed the very person with whom Monsieur le Duc de Joyeuse must wish to speak.”

With these words the superior made another low courtesy to the duke and disappeared.

Ten minutes afterward she returned, accompanied by an hospitaliere, whose veil completely covered her face.  It was Diana, who had already assumed the dress of the order.

The duke thanked the superior, offered a chair to her companion, himself sat down, and the superior quitted the room, closing with her own hands the doors of the deserted and gloomy-looking apartment.

“Madame,” said Joyeuse, without any preface, “you are the lady of the Rue des Augustins; that mysterious person with whom my brother, Monsieur le Comte du Bouchage, is so passionately and madly in love.”

The hospitaliere bowed her head in reply, but did not open her lips.

This affectation appeared to Joyeuse almost like an act of rudeness; he was already very indifferently disposed to his companion, and continued: 

“You cannot have supposed, madame, that it is sufficient to be beautiful, or to appear beautiful; to have no heart lying hidden beneath that beauty, to inspire a wretched and despairing passion in the heart and mind of a young man of my name, and then one day calmly to tell him, ’So much the worse for you if you possess a heart.  I have none; nor do I wish for any.’”

“That was not my reply, monsieur, and you have been incorrectly informed,” said the hospitaliere, in so noble and touching a tone of voice that Joyeuse’s anger was in a moment subdued.

“The actual words are immaterial, madame, when their sense has been conveyed.  You have rejected my brother, and have reduced him to despair.”