The windows had been closed; Madame was decked out in a manner fit to do honours to a prince of the Empire.  Then the rogue, beatified by the holy beauty of Imperia, knew that Emperor, burgraf, nay, even a cardinal about to be elected pope, would willingly for that night have changed places with him, a little priest who, beneath his gown, had only the devil and love.

He put on a lordly air, and saluted her with a courtesy by no means ungraceful; and then the sweet lady said to him, regaling with a piercing glance—­

“Come and sit close to me, that I may see if you have altered since yesterday.”

“Oh yes,” said he.

“And how?” said she.

“Yesterday,” replied the artful fellow, “I loved you; today, we love each other, and from a poor sinner I have become richer than a king.”

“Oh, little one, little one!” cried she, merrily; “yes, you are indeed changed, for from a young priest I see well you have turned into an old devil.”

And side by side they sat down before a large fire, which helped to spread their ecstasy around.  They remained always ready to begin eating, seeing that they only thought of gazing into each other’s eyes, and never touched a dish.  Just as they were beginning to feel comfortable and at their ease, there came a great noise at Madame’s door, as if people were beating against it, and crying out.

“Madame,” cried the little servant hastily, “here’s another of them.”

“Who is it?” cried she in a haughty manner, like a tyrant, savage at being interrupted.

“The Bishop of Coire wishes to speak with you.”

“May the devil take him!” said she, looking at Philippe gently.

“Madame he has seen the light through the chinks, and is making a great noise.”

“Tell him I have the fever, and you will be telling him no lie, for I am ill of this little priest who is torturing my brain.”

But just as she had finished speaking, and was pressing with devotion the hand of Philippe who trembled in his skin, appeared the fat Bishop of Coire, indignant and angry.  The officers followed him, bearing a trout canonically dressed, fresh from the Rhine, and shining in a golden platter, and spices contained in little ornamental boxes, and a thousand dainties, such as liqueurs and jams, made by the holy nuns at his Abbey.

“Ah, ah!” said he, with his deep voice, “I haven’t time to go to the devil, but you must give me a touch of him in advance, eh! my little one.”

“Your belly will one day make a nice sheath for a sword,” replied she, knitting her brows above her eyes, which from being soft and gentle had become mischievous enough to make one tremble.

“And this little chorus singer is here to offer that?” said the bishop, insolently turning his great rubicund face towards Philippe.

“Monseigneur, I’m here to confess Madame.”

“Oh, oh, do you not know the canons?  To confess the ladies at this time of night is a right reserved to bishops, so take yourself off; go and herd with simple monks, and never come back here again under pain of excommunication.”