Gonzague was left alone, indeed, only in a sense, for on a sudden the great hall with its famous pictures had become the theatre of fierce emotions and menacing presences. Just at the moment when Gonzague believed his schemes to be at their best and his fortunes to be nearing their top, he was suddenly threatened with the renewal of the old terror that had been kept at bay through all the years that had passed since the night of Caylus. Through all these years Lagardere had been kept from Paris, at the cost, indeed, as he believed, of many lives, but that was a price Louis de Gonzague was always prepared to pay when the protection of his own life was in question. Now it would seem as if Lagardere had broken his exile, had forced his way through the thicket of swords, and was again in Paris. Nor was this the worst. Just when Gonzague, after all his failures to trace the missing child of his victim, just when he had so ingeniously found a substitute for that missing child, it would really seem as if the child herself, now a woman, had come to Paris to defy him and to destroy his plans. He sat huddled with black thoughts for a time which seemed to him an age, but was in reality not more than a few moments; then, extending his hand, he struck a bell and a servant entered.

"Tell Peyrolles I want him," the prince commanded, and was again alone with his dreads and his dangers until Peyrolles appeared. Gonzague turned to his factotum. "I have reason to suspect that Lagardere is in Paris. If it be true, he will come too late. The princess will have accepted the gypsy as her child, the mother’s voice will have spoken. If Lagardere is in Paris, he and the girl must be found, and once found—"

The ivory-like face of Peyrolles was quickened with a cunning look. "I have a man who will find him if any one can."

Gonzague turned upon him sharply. "Who is it?"

"Monseigneur," said Peyrolles, "I have at my disposal, and at the disposal of your highness, a very remarkable man, the hunchback Æsop. He was in the moat of Caylus that night. He, with those two you saw yesterday, are the only ones left, except—"

Peyrolles paused for a moment, and his pale face worked uncomfortably. Gonzague interpreted his thought. "Except you and me, you were going to say."

Peyrolles nodded gloomily. "As Æsop," he said, "has been in Spain all these years hunting Lagardere—"

"Yes," Gonzague interrupted, "and never finding him."

Peyrolles bowed. "True, your highness, but at least up to now he has kept Lagardere on the Spanish side of the frontier, kept Lagardere in peril of his life. Æsop hates Lagardere, always has hated him. When the last of our men met with"—he paused for a moment as if to find a fitting phrase, and then continued—"the usual misfortune, I thought it useless to leave Æsop in Spain, and sent for him. He came to me to-day. May I present him to your highness?"

Gonzague nodded thoughtfully. Any ally was welcome in such a crisis. "Yes," he said.

Peyrolles went to the door that communicated with the prince’s private apartments, and, opening it, beckoned into the corridor. Then he drew back into the room, and a moment later was followed by a hunchbacked man in black, who wore a large sword. The man bowed profoundly to the Prince de Gonzague.

Peyrolles introduced him. "This is the man, monseigneur."

Gonzague looked fixedly at the man. He could see little of his face, for the head was thrust forward from the stooping, misshapen shoulders, and his long, dark hair hung about his cheeks and shaded his countenance. The face seemed pale and intelligent. It was naturally quite unfamiliar to Gonzague, who knew nothing of Æsop except as one of the men who had played a sinister part in the murder at Caylus.

Gonzague addressed him. "You know much, they tell me?"

The man bowed again, and spoke, slowly: "I know that Lagardere is in Paris, and with the child of Nevers."

"Do you know where he is?" Gonzague questioned.

The man answered, with laconic confidence: "I will find out."

"How?" asked Gonzague.

The hunchback laughed dryly. "That is my secret. Paris cannot hold any mystery from me."

Gonzague questioned again: "Is it to your interest that Lagardere should die?"

"Indeed, yes," the hunchback answered. "Has he not sworn to kill every man who attacked Nevers that night? Has he not kept his word well? I am the last that is left—I and Monsieur Peyrolles, for, of course, I except your Excellence. I promise you I will find him, but I shall need help."

"Help?" Gonzague echoed.

The hunchback nodded. "He is a dangerous fellow, this Lagardere, as six of us have found to our cost. Are there not two of our number newly in your highness’s service?"

"Cocardasse and Passepoil," Peyrolles explained.

The hunchback rubbed his hands. "The very men. Will your highness place them under my orders?"

"By all means," Gonzague answered, and, turning to Peyrolles, he said: "They are in the antechamber; bring them in."

Peyrolles turned to obey, when the hunchback delayed him with a gesture. "Your pardon, highness," he said; "but I think there is another service I can render you to-day."

"Another service?" Gonzague repeated, looking at the hunchback with some surprise.

The hunchback explained: "Your highness, as I understand, has summoned for this afternoon a small family council, ostensibly for the purpose of considering the position of affairs between madame the princess and yourself."

The hunchback paused. Gonzague nodded, but said nothing, and the hunchback resumed: "Your real purpose, however, as I understand, is to present to that council the young lady, the daughter of Nevers, whom I have been fortunate enough to discover in Spain. You wish this discovery to come as a surprise to madame the princess."

Still Gonzague nodded, still Gonzague kept silence.

"I believe that you have requested madame the princess to attend this family council, and that up to the present you have not succeeded in obtaining her assent."

"That is so," said Gonzague.

"I was about to suggest," the hunchback went on, "if your highness will permit me, that you should employ me as your ambassador to madame the princess. I believe I could persuade her to be present at the family gathering."

Gonzague looked at the man in astonishment. "What persuasions could you employ," he asked, "which would be likely to succeed where mine have failed?"

Again Æsop made an apologetic gesture as he pleaded his former excuse. "That is my secret," he repeated; "but, prince, if you employ me you must let me attain my ends by my own means, so long as you find that those ends give you satisfaction and are of service to your purposes. Though I am by no means"—here he laughed a little, bitter laugh—"an attractive person, I believe I have a keen wit, and I think I have a clever tongue, thanks to which I have often succeeded in difficult enterprises where others have failed ignominiously—at least, it will be no harm to try."

"Certainly," Gonzague agreed, "it will be no harm to try. If the princess persists, I could, of course, in the end compel her by a direct order from the king himself, who is good enough to honor us with his presence to-day."

"But," the hunchback interrupted, "it would be far more agreeable to you if the princess could be induced to come of her own accord?"

"Certainly," Gonzague agreed.

"Then," said the hunchback, "have I permission to approach madame the princess and endeavor to persuade her to act in conformity to your wishes?"

"You have," said Gonzague, decisively. Something in the hunchback’s manner attracted him. The suggestion of mysterious influences appealed to his Italian spirit, and the confidence of the hunchback inspired him with confidence. He pointed to the curtained alcove.

"Madame the princess," he said, gravely, "comes every day at this hour to spend some moments in contemplation and in prayer beside the picture of her former husband. That alcove shrines his sword. By virtue of a mutual understanding, this room is always left empty daily at this same time, that madame the princess may fulfil her pious duty untroubled by the sight of any who might be displeasing to her."

Here Gonzague sighed profoundly and summoned to his face the expression of a much-wronged, grievously misappreciated man. After an interval, which the hunchback silently respected, Gonzague resumed:

"If she were to find you here the princess might be, would be, pained; but if, indeed, you think you have any arguments that would serve to influence her mind, you could explain your presence as owing to ignorance due to the newness of your service here."

Æsop nodded sagaciously. "I understand," he said. "Leave it to me. And now if your highness will place those two fellows at my disposal, I will give them their instructions."

The prince rose and turned to Peyrolles. "Send the men to Master Æsop," he commanded.

Peyrolles went to the door of the antechamber, and returned in an instant with Cocardasse and Passepoil, now both gorgeously dressed in an extravagantly modish manner, which became them, if possible, less than their previous rags and tatters. Both men saluted Gonzague profoundly, and both started at seeing the hunchback standing apart from them with averted face.

Gonzague pointed to the hunchback. "Obey Master Æsop, gentlemen, as you would obey me." The two bravos bowed respectfully. Gonzague turned to the hunchback and spoke in a lower tone: "Find this Lagardere for me, and we will soon break his invincible sword."

"How?" the hunchback questioned, with a faint note of irony in his voice.

Gonzague continued: "By the hands of the hang-man, Master Æsop. Do your best. Those who serve me well serve themselves."

The hunchback answered, slowly: "Whenever you want me, I am here."

Gonzague, in spite of himself, started at the hunchback’s last words, but the demeanor of Æsop was so simple and his bearing so respectful that Gonzague was convinced that their use was purely accident. He looked at his watch. "I must prepare for the ceremony," he said. "Come with me, Peyrolles," and the prince and his henchman quitted the apartment.

The hunchback muttered to himself: "The sword of Lagardere has yet a duty to perform before it be broken." Then he turned to Cocardasse and Passepoil where they stood apart: "Well, friends, do you remember me?"

Cocardasse answered him, thoughtfully: "’Tis a long time since we met, Æsop."

Passepoil, as usual, commented on his comrade’s remark: "It might have been longer with advantage."

Indifferent to the bravos’ obvious distaste for his society, the hunchback continued: "I have news for you. Lagardere and I met yesterday."

Cocardasse whistled. "The devil you did!"

The hunchback coolly continued: "We fought, and I killed him."

Cocardasse’s air of distaste was suddenly transmuted into a raging, blazing air of hatred. He swore a great oath and sprang forward. "Then, by the powers, I will kill you!"

"So will I!" cried Passepoil, no less furious than his friend, and advanced with him. But when the pair were close upon the hunchback he suddenly drew himself up, flung back the hair from his face, and faced them, crying, "I am here!"

Cocardasse and Passepoil paused, gasping. Both had one name on their lips, and the name was the name of Lagardere. In another moment Lagardere was stooping again, the long hair was falling about his face, and the two men could scarcely believe that Æsop was not standing before them. "Hush! To you both, as to all the world, I am Æsop, Gonzague’s attendant devil. Now I have work for you. Go to-night at eleven to No. 7, Rue de Chantre." As he spoke he drew a letter from his coat and gave it to Cocardasse. "Give this letter to the young lady who lives there. I have warned her of your coming. I have told her what she is to do. She will accompany you unquestioningly. I have to trust to you in this, friends, for I have my own part to play, and, by my faith, it is the hardest part I have ever played in my life." He laughed as he spoke; then he drew from his breast another packet and handed it to Passepoil. "Here," he said, "are three invitations for the king’s ball to-night—one for the girl you will escort, one for each of you. When you go to the house you will wait till the girl is ready, and then you will escort her to the king’s ball in the Palais Royal at midnight, and bring her into the presence of the king by the royal tent near the round pond of Diana."

"I will do that same," said Cocardasse, cheerfully.

"Never let her out of your sight at the ball," Lagardere insisted.

"Devil a minute," Passepoil affirmed.

"Let no one speak to her," Lagardere continued.

"Devil a word," said Cocardasse.

As the hunchback seemed to have no further instructions for them, the pair made to depart, but Lagardere restrained them, saying: "Ah, wait a moment. We are all the toys of fate. If any unlucky chance should arise, come to me in the presence of the king and fling down your glove."

"I understand," said Cocardasse.

Lagardere dismissed them. "Then, farewell, old friends, till to-night."

When Lagardere was left alone he placed himself at the table where Gonzague had been sitting so short a time before, and, taking pen and paper, wrote rapidly a short letter. When he had folded and sealed this, he rose, and, crossing the room, went to the door which opened on the antechamber to the princess’s apartments. Here he found a servant waiting, wearing the mourning livery of Nevers, to whom he gave the letter, telling him that it was urgent, and that it should be delivered to the princess at once. When he had done this he returned to the great room and walked slowly up and down it, surveying in turn each of the three pictures of the three friends who had been called the Three Louis. He paused for a moment before the picture of Louis de Nevers. "Louis de Nevers," he said, softly, "you shall be avenged to-night."

He moved a little away, and paused again before the portrait of the king. "Louis of France," he said, "you shall be convinced to-night."

A third time he resumed his walk, and a third time he paused, this time before the portrait of the Prince de Gonzague. Here he stood a little while longer in silence, studying curiously the striking lineaments of his enemy, that enemy who, through all the change of years, had retained the grace and beauty represented on the canvas. "Louis de Gonzague," he murmured, "you shall be judged to-night."

Then he resumed his steady pacing up and down the room, with his hands clasped lightly behind his humped shoulders, busy in thought. For, indeed, he had much to think of, much to plan, much to execute, and but little time in which to do what he had to do. Fortune had greatly favored him so far. The friends he had summoned had come at his call. One more of his enemies had been swept from his path, and by the destruction of that enemy he had been able, thanks to his old training as a play-actor, to enter unsuspected into the household and the councils of the man who most hated him, of the man whom he most hated. But, though much was done, there was yet much to do, and it needed all his fortitude, all his courage, and all his humor to face without hesitation or alarm the problems that faced him.

His reflections were interrupted by the opening of a door, and, turning rapidly, he found himself in the presence of a woman clad entirely in black, whom he knew at once, in spite of the ravages that time and an unchanging grief had wrought upon her beauty, to be the Princess de Gonzague, the widow of Nevers. The princess was accompanied by a lady-in-waiting, a woman older than herself, and, like herself, clad wholly in black, on whose arm she leaned for support. Lagardere bowed respectfully to the woman he had last seen so many years before in the short and terrible interview in the moat at Caylus.

"You requested to see me," the princess said, gravely and sternly.

"I requested permission to wait upon you," Lagardere answered, deferentially.

"You are," the princess continued, "I presume, in the service of the Prince de Gonzague?"

Lagardere bowed in silence.

"It is not my custom," the princess said, "to receive messengers from his highness, but it is my custom daily to visit these rooms for a few moments at this time to look at one of the pictures they contain, and at this time his highness leaves the room at my disposal. From the earnestness of your letter, I have, therefore, consented to see you here in the course of this, my daily pilgrimage. What have you got to say to me?"

"Your highness," said Lagardere, "I am, as you imagine, in the service of his highness the Prince de Gonzague, but I have been out of France for many years, and know little or nothing of the events which have taken place in my absence. I understand, however, that there is to be a family council held in the palace to-day, and that it is my master’s earnest wish that you should be present at that council."

The princess drew herself up and surveyed the hunchback coldly. "There is no need," she said, "for any such council nor any need for my presence. I have told your master so already, and do not see why I should be importuned to repeat my words."

Lagardere bowed again, and made as if to retire. Then, as if suddenly recollecting something, he drew from his breast a small, sealed package. "As I was coming to the Hôtel de Gonzague this morning," he said, "a man whom I do not know stopped me in the street and gave me this package, with the request that I should deliver it to your highness. I explained to the man that I was in the service of his highness the Prince de Gonzague, and had not the honor of being included among your highness’s servants. But the man still pressed me to take charge of this packet, asking me to deliver it to the care of one of your highness’s women, and I should have done so but that I thought upon reflection it might be better, if possible, to deliver it into your own hands."

As he spoke he extended the package, which the princess received in silence and scrutinized carefully. It was addressed to her in a handwriting that was wholly unfamiliar, and carefully sealed with seals in black wax, that bore the impression of the word "Adsum." The princess looked keenly at the hunchback, who stood quietly before her with bent head in an attitude of respectful attention.

"Do you know anything further respecting this package?" the princess asked.

Lagardere shook his head. "I have told your highness," he said, "all I know of the matter. I never saw the man who gave it to me. I do not think I should know him again."

The princess again examined the packet closely, and then, advancing to the table, seated herself for a moment and broke the seals. The contents of the packet seemed to startle her, for she suddenly turned to her waiting-woman and beckoned her to her side. Then, with a gesture, she motioned to Lagardere to stand farther apart. Lagardere withdrew to the remotest corner of the apartment, and seemed lost in contemplation of the portrait of Louis de Gonzague.

The princess spoke to her companion in low, hurried tones. "Brigitte," she said, "here is something strange." And she showed her a little book which she had taken from the packet. "This is the prayer-book which I gave to my husband at Caylus seventeen years ago, and see what is written in it." And she pointed to some words which were written on the blank page inside the cover in the same handwriting as that in which the packet was addressed. These words the princess read over to her companion:

"’God will have pity if you have faith. Your child lives and shall be restored to you to-day. Distrust Gonzague more than ever. Remember the motto of Louis de Nevers. During the council sit near his picture, and at the right time, for you and for you alone, the dead shall speak.’" These words were signed, "Henri de Lagardere."

The princess turned and beckoned to the hunch-back, who immediately approached her. "You are my husband’s servant," she said. "Are you much in his confidence?"

"Madame," Lagardere replied, "I am too new to Paris to consider myself in any sense the confidential servant of his highness, but I can assure you that I hope to serve him as he deserves to be served."

The princess seemed thoughtful, then she asked again: "Did you ever hear of a man named Henri de Lagardere?"

The hunchback appeared agitated. "Madame," he replied, "Henri de Lagardere is the enemy of my master, and he is my enemy. I have been seeking him unsuccessfully for many years, both in my master’s interests and in my own."

The princess rose. "Enough, sir," she said. "I will consider his highness’s wishes. Come, Brigitte."

Holding the packet in her hand and leaning on her companion’s arm, she went towards the picture of Louis de Nevers and knelt for a moment in prayer. Then she rose and silently quitted the room, still leaning on Brigitte’s arm.

Lagardere remained alone for a while in the room, pensively contemplating the portraits of the Three Louis. Then the sound of footsteps came to his ears, footsteps advancing from many directions, footsteps all making towards the great hall. He smiled as a man smiles who is prepared to encounter cheerfully great odds, and then, as if there were observing eyes upon him, though indeed no eyes beheld him save those that were painted in the canvases of the three friends, he slouched across the room, more markedly the hunchback than ever, till he came to the curtained door by the side of the picture of Louis de Nevers. He lifted the curtain, glanced round him for a moment at the empty room, and then dipped behind the curtain.

The curtain fell, the room was empty, save for the painted presences of the Three Louis. But the room was not empty long. A few moments later Gonzague entered the room respectfully escorting his illustrious master and friend, Louis of France. At their heels followed a little crowd of notabilities, eminent lawyers, eminent ecclesiastics, all of whom had claim, by virtue of their kinship or by virtue of their authority on delicate, contested family matters, to a seat and a voice in the council that Louis of Gonzague had been pleased to summon. After these again came Gonzague’s own little tail of partisans, Navailles and Nocé, Taranne and Oriol, Choisy and Gironne, Albret and Montaubert, with Chavernay fluttering about them like an impudent butterfly, laughing at them, laughing at his august cousin, laughing at the king, laughing at himself—laughing at everything. To him such a family gathering as this which he attended was almost the most ridiculous thing imaginable on the face of the whole world, and therefore deserving of consideration, if not of serious consideration.

The king took his place upon the kind of little throne which had been set apart for him. The rest of the company arranged themselves with instinctive sense of precedence upon the chairs that were ranged behind it. To Chavernay the whole thing looked like a pompous parody of a trial where there was nobody to be tried, and he made unceasing jokes to his neighbors, which compelled them to laugh. This earned for him a disapproving glance from the dark eyes of Gonzague, which had no effect whatever in depressing his spirits.

When all the guests were duly seated, Gonzague gravely rose, and, turning towards the king, saluted him respectfully. "I thank your majesty," he said, "for honoring us on this occasion, when matters of great moment to me and to the lady whom I am proud to call my wife, and to the great family with which I am associated at once by ties of blood and alliance, are in question. Your majesty will readily understand that nothing but the gravest sense of duty could have urged me to bring together so learned, so just, so brilliant an assembly of men to deal with delicate matters which have perhaps been too long left undealt with. Such differences of opinion as may perhaps be admitted to exist between madame the Princess de Gonzague and myself, however trivial in the beginning, have in a sense grown with the passing of time into an importance which calls imperatively for some manner or form of adjustment."

He paused in his speech, as if to control his emotions and to collect his thoughts. The king leaned forward and addressed him. "Does any one," he asked, "appear here for madame the Princess de Gonzague?"

Gonzague looked about him with a melancholy glance. "I had hoped, sire," he said, "that madame the princess would have chosen some one to represent her." But even as he spoke he paused, for the door that led to the princess’s apartment was thrown open, and the Princess de Gonzague appeared, clad in black as usual, and as usual leaning upon the arm of her faithful Brigitte.

As the princess entered the room, every one rose, and all eyes were fixed upon the stately figure and melancholy features of the still beautiful, if prematurely aged, widow of Nevers. The princess made a deep inclination to the king, and then spoke: "Your majesty, I need no one to represent me. I am here."

Gonzague allowed his features to betray the satisfaction he felt at the presence of his consort. He hastened to advance to her as she seated herself close to the curtained alcove, saying as he did so: "Madame, you are indeed welcome." And there was a sincerity in his tone not always characteristic of his utterances.

The king bowed in his courtliest manner to the unhappy lady, and addressed her: "Princess, you know why we are assembled here?"

Slowly the princess inclined her head. "I do," she said, and said no more, but sat looking fixedly before her, the image of a patience that shielded a strong purpose and a resignation that was now kindled by a new hope.

The king turned to his friend and host: "Prince de Gonzague, we await your pleasure."

Louis de Gonzague rose to his feet and surveyed his assembled guests with a grave countenance that seemed to suggest boldness without effrontery and a grief nobly borne. All present admired his beauty, his dignity, the proud humility of his carriage towards the great lady who was in name his wife. Many sympathized with him in what they knew to be his strange position, and felt that the princess was indeed to blame in refusing friendship and sympathy to such a man.

Gonzague bowed respectfully to the king, and his eyes travelled over the whole range of his audience as he spoke. "Sire," he said, "I have to speak to-day of the sorrow that has haunted me, as it has haunted your majesty, for seventeen years. Louis de Lorraine, Duke de Nevers, was my cousin by blood, my brother by affection. His memory lives here, eternal as is the grief of his widow, who has not disdained to wear my name after wearing his."

He paused for a moment, and in that pause the princess spoke in a voice that was shaken with emotion, in spite of her determination to be firm: "Do not speak of that. I have passed those seventeen years in solitude and in tears."

Gonzague paid to her and her sorrow the homage of a bow; then he resumed: "When madame the princess did me the honor to accept my name, she made public her secret but legitimate marriage with the late Duke de Nevers and the birth of a daughter of that union. This child disappeared on the night of Nevers’s death. The registration of its birth is torn out of the chapel register and lost. For seventeen years the princess has patiently sought for her lost child, and has sought in vain."

The princess sighed: "Alas!" Gonzague paused for a moment as if to allow the princess to say more, and then, seeing she kept silent, he continued: "Calumniators have hinted that it was my wish that the child should not be found. Have they not, madame?"

"Such things have been said," the princess replied, gravely.

Again Gonzague spoke: "There were even those who hinted that my hand might strike at a child’s life. Is not that so?"

Again the princess repeated her former phrase: "Such things have been said."

Now Gonzague questioned her directly: "And you believed the accusation?"

The princess inclined her head: "I believed it."

At this reply a murmur not to be repressed ran through the assembly. Those that sympathized with Gonzague before now sympathized more deeply on hearing such an answer come so coldly from his wife’s lips. Gonzague allowed himself the luxury of a little, patient sigh, the privileged protest of the good and just under an intolerable suspicion.

"I am not surprised. The princess does not know me. For seventeen years the princess and I have been strangers. Now, for the first time, I can show myself to my wife as I am." He addressed himself directly to the princess: "Through all these seventeen years I, too, have been seeking what you sought; but, more fortunate than you, I have succeeded where you have failed."

He turned to Peyrolles, who was standing close to his master’s side, and commanded: "Bring in Mademoiselle Gabrielle de Nevers."

In a moment Peyrolles had vanished from the room, leaving every man in the assembly impressed and startled by Gonzague’s statement. The king looked from Gonzague, whose face he had been studying while he spoke with admiration and approval, and fixed his keen gaze upon the princess. She alone, of all those in the room, seemed unmoved by the momentous tidings that her husband had communicated. The younger men whispered among themselves, the elders kept silence, but it was plain that their curiosity was very great.

In a few moments Peyrolles returned to the room escorting Flora, now very beautifully attired in a dress of simple richness.

Chavernay could not restrain his surprise as she entered. "The little dancing-girl," he whispered to his right-hand neighbor, Choisy, but he said no more. Even his airy nature was impressed by the stillness of the company and the gravity of the situation.

Gonzague took the hand of Flora and conducted her across the room to the princess. "Madame," he said, "I restore your child."

The princess looked fixedly at the girl, her thin hands clasping the arms of her chair convulsively, and it could be seen that she was trembling from head to foot. She was waiting for a voice, she was wondering if she would hear a voice, and as she waited and wondered she heard a voice from behind the curtain near where she sat apart, a voice which reached her ears, a voice with a mysterious message—"I am here."

The princess clasped her hand to her heart. "Ah!" she murmured, "will the dead speak? Is this my child?" And again the voice spoke and answered: "No."

By this time Gonzague and the girl had reached the princess, who now rose to her feet and confronted the pair as she spoke. "My child should have with her a packet containing the page torn away from the register of the chapel of Caylus, torn away with my own hands." She turned to Flora and questioned her: "Have you that packet?"

Flora dropped on her knees and stretched out her hands with a pretty, pathetic air of supplication. "Madame, I have nothing. Ah, madame, the poor little gypsy girl asks of you neither wealth nor station; she only entreats you to love her as she loves you."

The princess prayed silently: "Oh, Heaven help me! Heaven inspire me!"

Gonzague was startled by this sudden hostility to his scheme, but spoke with respectful earnestness: "Madame," he said, slowly, "we have depositions, sworn to and duly attested in Madrid, that this girl, then a year-old child, was given to a band of gypsies by a man whose description coincides exactly with that of one of the men believed to have been concerned in the attack upon Louis de Nevers in the moat of Caylus. We have their statements that in their hearing the man called the child Gabrielle, that he said to the head gypsy that she was of noble birth, and that he gave her up to them because he wished the child to suffer for the hate he bore her father. All this and more than this we can prove. For my part, I say that in this girl’s lineaments I seem to see again the features of my dear dead friend. Madame, to reject the child whom we believe to be the daughter of Nevers, you must have reasons grave indeed—the strongest proofs. Have you such reasons, such proofs?"

From behind the curtain a voice travelled to the princess’s ears, murmuring, "Yes," and the princess repeated, "Yes," confidently.

Gonzague drew himself up with a look of pain and sorrow. "I understand, madame. Some impostor, speculating upon your sorrow, has told you that he has found your child."

Chavernay whispered behind his hand to Navailles: "Our cousin is losing his temper."

As the princess kept silent, Gonzague pressed his question: "Is that not so, madame? Speak! Is this not so? Some one has told you that she is alive?"

The princess heard the voice behind the curtain whisper: "She lives." Looking steadily at Gonzague, she said: "She lives, in spite of you, by the grace of God."

The agitation of the audience was very great. The king directly addressed the princess: "Can you produce her?"

Again the voice whispered to the Princess, "Yes," and again the Princess repeated, "Yes," as confidently as before.

"When?" asked the king, to whom Gonzague had at once yielded the privilege of question.

The voice whispered, "To-night," and the princess repeated the words.

The voice whispered again, "At the ball in the Palais Royal," and again the Princess echoed it, "At the ball in the Palais Royal."

The king had no more to say; he was silent. Gonzague groaned aloud as he turned to Flora. "My poor child, only God can give you back the heart of your mother."

The girl, with the quick impulsiveness of her race, again flung herself on her knees before the princess, while she cried: "Madame, whether you are my mother or not, I respect you, I love you!"

The princess laid her hand gently on the girl’s dark hair. "My child, my child, I believe you are no accomplice of this crime. I wish you well."

Flora was now sobbing bitterly, and seemed unable to rise. Peyrolles hastened to her side, hastened to lift her to her feet, and hurriedly conducted the weeping girl from the room. The princess, holding her head high, turned and addressed the king: "Your majesty, my mourning ends to-day. I have recovered my daughter. I shall be your guest to-night, sire."

The king bowed profoundly. "Believe that we shall be most proud to welcome you."

The princess made him a reverence and turned to leave the room. The king quitted his chair, hastened to her side, and gave her his arm to the door. When she had departed, Louis of France hastened to Gonzague where he stood alone, the centre of wondering eyes. "What is the meaning of this double discovery?" he asked.

Gonzague shook his head with the air of one who is faced by a shameful conspiracy, but who is not afraid to face it. "I have found Nevers’s child. Who the impostor is I do not know, but I shall know—and then—"

He paused, but his menacing silence was more impressive than any speech. The king wrung his friend’s hand warmly. "I hope you may. Till to-night, gentlemen."

All were standing now. The king embraced the company in a general salutation and went out, followed by his friends. The lawyers, the ecclesiastics took their leave. Only the friends of Gonzague remained in the room, and they stood apart, eying their master dubiously, uncertain whether he would wish them to go or to stay. Chavernay took it upon himself, with his usual lightness of heart, to play their spokesman. He advanced to Gonzague and addressed him.

"Can we condole with you on this game of cross-purposes?"

Gonzague turned to Chavernay, and his countenance was calm, bold, almost smiling. "No. I shall win the game. We shall meet to-night. Perhaps I shall need your swords."

"Now, as ever, at your service," Navailles protested, and the rest murmured their agreement with the speaker. Then Gonzague’s partisans slowly filed out of the room, Chavernay, as usual, smiling, the others unusually grave. Gonzague turned to Peyrolles, who had returned from his task of convoying Flora to her apartments. "Who has done all this?" he asked.

He thought he was alone with his henchman, but he was mistaken. Æsop had quietly entered the room, and was standing at his side. Æsop answered the question addressed to Peyrolles. "I can tell you. The man you can neither find nor bind."

Gonzague started. "Lagardere?"

Æsop nodded. "Lagardere, whom I will give into your hands if you wish."

Gonzague caught at his promise eagerly. "When?" he asked.

"To-night, at the king’s ball," Æsop answered.