the Huguenots and the Catholics, so long at war—­saw the Louvre as gay, as full, and as lively as the first of the fete days had found it; and in the humours of the throng, in the ceaseless passage of masks and maids of honour, guards and bishops, Swiss in the black, white, and green of Anjou, and Huguenot nobles in more sombre habits, the country-bred girl had found recreation and to spare.  Until gradually the evening had worn away and she had begun to feel nervous; and M. de Tignonville, her betrothed, placing her in the embrasure of a window, had gone to seek Madame.

She had waited for a time without much misgiving; expecting each moment to see him return.  He would be back before she could count a hundred; he would be back before she could number the leagues that separated her from her beloved province, and the home by the Biscay Sea, to which even in that brilliant scene her thoughts turned fondly.  But the minutes had passed, and passed, and he had not returned.  Worse, in his place Tavannes—­not the Marshal, but his brother, Count Hannibal—­had found her; he, whose odious court, at once a menace and an insult, had subtly enveloped her for a week past.  He had sat down beside her, he had taken possession of her, and, profiting by her inexperience, had played on her fears and smiled at her dislike.  Finally, whether she would or no, he had swept her with him into the Chamber.  The rest had been an obsession, a nightmare, from which only the King’s voice summoning Tavannes to his side had relieved her.

Her aim now was to escape before he returned, and before another, seeing her alone, adopted his role and was rude to her.  Already the courtiers about her were beginning to stare, the pages to turn and titter and whisper.  Direct her gaze as she might, she met some eye watching her, some couple enjoying her confusion.  To make matters worse, she presently discovered that she was the only woman in the Chamber; and she conceived the notion that she had no right to be there at that hour.  At the thought her cheeks burned, her eyes dropped; the room seemed to buzz with her name, with gross words and jests, and gibes at her expense.

At last, when the situation had grown nearly unbearable, the group before the door parted, and Tignonville appeared.  The girl rose with a cry of relief, and he came to her.  The courtiers glanced at the two and smiled.

He did not conceal his astonishment at finding her there.  “But, Mademoiselle, how is this?” he asked, in a low voice.  He was as conscious of the attention they attracted as she was, and as uncertain on the point of her right to be there.  “I left you in the gallery.  I came back, missed you, and—­”

She stopped him by a gesture.  “Not here!” she muttered, with suppressed impatience.  “I will tell you outside.  Take me—­take me out, if you please, Monsieur, at once!”