Presently they entered the immense apartment, or rather series of apartments, in which the receptions took place.

Here were gathered all the ladies of the court; all the courtiers, wits, and nobles of France, except those who were in their places with the army.  There was little air of ceremony.  All present were more or less acquainted with each other.

In a room screened off by curtains, the king was playing at cards with a few highly privileged members of the court, and he would presently walk through the long suite of rooms, but while at cards his presence in no ways weighed upon the assembly.  Groups of ladies sat on fauteuils surrounded by their admirers, with whom volleys of light badinage, fun, and compliments were exchanged.

Leaving Rupert talking to some of those to whom he had been introduced in the king’s antechamber, and who were anxious to obey the royal command to make themselves agreeable to him, the Marquis de Pignerolles sauntered across the room to a young lady who was sitting with three others, surrounded by a group of gentlemen.

Rupert was watching him, and saw him stoop over the girl, for she was little more, and say a few words in her ear.  A surprised and somewhat puzzled expression passed across her face, and then as her father left her she continued chatting as merrily as before.

Rupert could scarcely recognize in the lovely girl of seventeen the little Adele with whom he had danced and walked little more than four years before.

Adele de Pignerolles was English rather than French in her style of beauty, for her hair was browner, and her complexion fresher and clearer, than those of the great majority of her countrywomen.  She was vivacious, but her residence in England had taught her a certain restraint of gesture and motion, and her admirers, and she had many, spoke of her as l’Anglaise.

Rupert gradually moved away from those with whom he was talking, and, moving round the group, went through an open window on to a balcony, whence he could hear what was being said by the lively party, without his presence being noticed.

“You are cruel, Mademoiselle d’Etamps,” one of the courtiers said.  “I believe you have no heart.  You love to drive us to distraction, to make us your slaves, and then you laugh at us.”

“It is all you deserve, Monsieur le Duc.  One would as soon think of taking the adoration of a butterfly seriously.  One is a flower, butterflies come round, and when they find no honey, flit away elsewhere.  You amuse yourself, so do I. Talk about hearts, I do not believe in such things.”

“That is treason,” the young lady who sat next to her said, laughing.  “Now, I am just the other way; I am always in love, but then I never can tell whom I love best, that is my trouble.  You are all so nice, messieurs, that it is impossible for me to say whom I love most.”

The young men laughed.