’Le bonhomme de Selinville!’ exclaimed Diane, feeling rather as if the compensation were like the little dog offered to Eustacie.

’Know ye not that his two heretic nephews perished the other night.  He is now the head of his name, the Marquis, the only one left of his house.’

‘He begins early,’ said Diane.

’An old soldier, my daughter, scarce stays to count the fallen.  He has no time to lose.  He is sixty, with a damaged constitution.  It will be but the affair of a few years, and then will my beautiful Marquise be free to choose for herself.  I shall go from the young Queen to obtain permission from the Queen-mother.’

No question was asked.  Diane never even thought objection possible.  It was a close to that present life which she had begun to loathe; it gave comparative liberty.  It would dull and confuse her heart-sick pain, and give her a certain superiority to her brother.  Moreover, it would satisfy the old father, whom she really loved.  Marriage with a worn-out old man was a simple step to full display for young ladies without fortune.

The Chevalier told Queen Elisabeth his purpose of placing his niece in the family convent, under the care of her aunt, the Abbess, in a foundation endowed by her own family on the borders of her own estate.  Elisabeth would have liked to keep her nearer, but could not but own that the change to the scenes of her childhood might be more beneficial than a residence in a nunnery at Paris, and the Chevalier spoke of his niece with a tender solicitude that gained the Queen’s heart.  She consented, only stipulating that Eustacie’s real wishes should be ascertained, and herself again made the exertion of visiting the patient for the purpose.

Eustacie had been partly dressed, and was lying as near as she could to the narrow window.  The Queen would not let her move, but took her damp languid hand, and detailed her uncle’s proposal.  It was plain that it was not utterly distasteful.  ‘Soeur Monique,’ she said, ’Soeur Monique would sing hymns to me, and then I should not see the imps at night.’

’Poor child!  And you would like to go?  You could bear the journey?’

’It would be in the air!  And then I should not smell blood—­ blood!’ And her cheeks became whiter again, if possible.

’Then you would not rather be at the Carmelites, or Maubuisson, near me?’

’Ah!  Madame, there would not be Soeur Monique.  If the journey would only make me die, as soon as I came, with Soeur Monique to hush me, and keep off dreadful images!’

’Dear child, you should put away the thought of dying.  Maybe you are to live, that your prayers may win salvation for the soul of him you love.’

’Oh, then!  I should like to go into a convent so strict—­so strict, cried Eustacie, with renewed vigour.  ’Bellaise is nothing like strict enough.  Does your Majesty indeed think that my prayers will aid him?’