It was a strangely superstitious age this age of Louis XV., strangely superstitious and strangely enlightened. On the one side the illuminated philosophers of the rising school of Voltaire, on the other a society ready to be gulled by every charlatan, quack, or sorceress clever enough to exploit the depths of human credulity. You shall read in the fascinating memoirs of that century how the male and female adventurers tricked to their immense profit that polished, gallant, cynical, and light-hearted noblesse which made the glory of the Court. And André was a true child of his age. Yvonne’s mystifying remarks had stirred all the superstition and awe lurking behind his hollow homage to the established religion, and human curiosity whetted this stimulus of superstition. He scented, in fact, an agreeable adventure in a visit to this mysterious witch.

But first he consulted his friend Henri, Comte de St. Benôit, like himself a Chevau-léger de la Garde, and like himself notorious for his skill with the sword and for his countless gallantries. Was it not St. Benôit who had taken his place in rousing the jealousy of the Comte des Forges and who had also been obliged to give the hot-headed husband the quietus of a flesh-wound?

Henri of course knew all about the wise woman. Was she not the talk of the bel monde?

“She won’t see you,” he said. “She only prophesies to women, and very few of them. I tried to bring her to book, but her girl, a devilish saucy grisette with a roving eye and a skittish pout, shut the door in my face, by Madame’s orders, if you please.”

“And you went away?”

“No, indeed, I put my knee against the door and said that as I couldn’t pay Madame I must pay her. Not the first time the hussy has been kissed, and it won’t be the last. You, too, will discover the jade hasn’t the dislike to men that her mistress has.”

“What will you wager she will not see me—the mistress?”

“A kiss from my Diane of the ballet. I’ll bet, too, Madame is not at home at all, for she comes and goes like a will-o’-the-wisp. But if you do see her she’ll tell you something cursedly disagreeable. She frightened the poor Des Forges, your Comtesse and mine, into hysterics, and,” his voice dropped, “she warned the Duchesse de Châteauroux she had only three weeks to live—and it was all the poor thing had. Don’t go to her, my dear André; she’ll see you in her crystal globe, face upwards in a heap of dead with an English sword in your guts.”

Needless to say, perhaps, that afternoon saw André at the tavern called “The Cock with the Spurs of Gold,” which, save for a brand-new sign-board, had all the appearance of a farmhouse hastily turned into an inn. Buried in the woods between Paris and Versailles it was exactly suited for a rendezvous to which all might repair without the world being any the wiser. André had carefully disguised himself, and as he rapped on the door his appearance suggested rather the comfortable bourgeois than the noble Capitaine-Lieutenant des Chevau-légers de la Garde. To his surprise he won his wager with greater ease than he had dreamed.

The saucy grisette, whose demure demeanour could not conceal the shifty falseness of her roving eyes, took to her mistress the name he gave, the “Sieur de Coutances,” and then, to his joy, speedily ushered him with no little ogling into an empty, low-beamed parlour, which was simply the apartment of a woman who could indulge her love of luxury. Of the sorceress trade there were no traces unless you counted for such an enormous black cat with the most ferocious whiskers, who arched his back on André’s entrance and glared at him with diabolical yellow eyes—a cat to make the flesh creep and bristle as did his whiskers.

“Welcome, Vicomte, welcome!”

André found himself staring in the dim light with intense surprise, not at a wizened hag, but at a young woman scarcely more than five-and-twenty, dressed in flowing coal-black draperies which made her wealth of fair hair, blue eyes, and dazzling skin all the more startling. Her dress was wide open at the throat and on her breast flashed an exquisite diamond cross. And what a figure! Those flowing draperies, that step forward revealed a woman perfectly shaped in every limb. It was therefore a shame that above her upper lip there was the suggestion of a dark moustache, though it added in the most extraordinary way to the weird effect of her appearance.

“Welcome, Vicomte, welcome!” she repeated, but she offered him no salute save a wave of her finely shaped hand towards a chair.

“I am not a vicomte,” André answered doggedly.

“Then when did the Vicomte de Nérac lose his rank?” she asked quickly, and laughed at his obvious embarrassment. “Ah, Vicomte, if I were not able to divine who my visitors were I should not have a trinket like this—” she patted her diamond cross, stooped and lifted the huge cat and stroked it gently with her chin.

“And what can I do for you?” she demanded, coming closer.

“My faith, but I do not know,” he answered. The faint perfume of her person was puzzling him sorely. But in truth he was familiar with the perfume of so many women that it was hopeless to expect an answer to the question.

“Nor do I,” the woman answered, still laughing, and her laugh was like the purr of her cat. “In any case, Monsieur le Vicomte must wait. A lady is already here to see me. No, it is not necessary to retire. In spite of that I have said, you doubt my powers; therefore you shall listen while she and I talk.”

She pointed to a large screen and André, now burning with curiosity, gladly seated himself behind it. The woman with the cat still in her arms promptly flung herself on to a long sofa and rang her hand-bell.

“Introduce Madame,” she said to the girl, “Madame’s fille de chambre must wait without.”

The visitor, André decided, was young. Her trim figure, the coquettish pose of her head, the graceful dignity of her carriage filled him with the liveliest regret that he could not see her face, which was thickly veiled. She came to an abrupt halt in the centre of the room—for the woman on the sofa never stirred. Clearly she, too, had expected something very different.

“Your name, Madame?” asked the sorceress abruptly.

“Mademoiselle, if it please you,” the visitor corrected, “Mademoiselle Lucie Marie Villefranche.”

André was listening now with all his ears. Where before had he heard that crisp, alluring voice?

“Bien, Madame.”

“Mademoiselle—” persisted the visitor, nettled.

“Then why does Mademoiselle wear a wedding-ring?”

The visitor made an impatient movement, bit her lip, and petulantly drew off her glove. On the hand she triumphantly held out there was no sign of a wedding-ring.

“It is in Madame’s pocket,” the sorceress said calmly. “But it is of as little importance as is Madame’s husband to her.”

The visitor checked an indignant reply and simply glared through her veil.

Excellent fun, thought André, when you set one woman against another—and such women!

“Give me your hand,” the sorceress proceeded, and she inspected it with the greatest care, the owner watching her with ill-concealed anxiety. “I see a crown in the palm which I cannot understand,” she said slowly, “a crown reversed. A beautiful hand,” she murmured, “beautiful and strong. The hand of a morceau de roi.”

Madame Villefranche uttered a sharp cry, almost of triumph. “Morceau de roi,” she repeated. “Morceau de roi. That is strange. You have heard perhaps that long ago another soothsayer also said the same.”

“I must consult the orb,” the other replied as if she did not hear, and she gazed long and silently at the crystal circle which she produced from its resting-place beside the diamond cross. “Yes, it is quite clear now.”

“What do you see?” was the eager question.

“A great gallery—it is I think the Salon d’Hercule at Versailles—there are many men and women in it, finely dressed—I see a lady in a rose-coloured satin in their centre—it is her favourite colour—they pay court to her——”

“Ah!” Madame Villefranche had stood up. Her hand went involuntarily to her heart.

“One enters with his hat on”—the sorceress jerked out slowly—“he keeps it on—he advances as they bow—he takes his hat off—it is the King—he kisses the hand of the woman in rose-coloured satin—she salutes——”

“Mon Dieu!” Madame Villefranche suddenly kneeled beside her. André, as excited as she was, crawled forward so as not to lose a word.

“I see her again”—the woman proceeded after a pause—“she gives orders to ministers—she makes generals—she tramples on all who oppose her—the King is her slave—ah! the crystal is disturbed—no—no—there is much unhappiness—the land is poor—there are jealousies, strifes, quarrels, wars—starving men and women cry out against the King and his mistress—but the woman in the rose-coloured satin still wears her jewels—she does not hear them. What is this?—yes, it is—a hearse leaving Versailles for Paris—the King looks out of the window above on to the Place d’Armes—he shrugs his shoulders—I do not see the woman in the rose-coloured satin any more—I think surely she is dead and no one cares—ah! the crystal has become dim.” She put it down and closed her eyes.

Dead silence, but André could hear the deep-drawn breaths of Madame Villefranche. Her hands were twisted in supreme emotion.

“And the face—the face of the woman, did you see that?” she asked with dry lips.

The sorceress opened her eyes. “Oh, yes,” she said slowly. “It is the face of Madame d’Étiolles, born Jeanne Antoinette Poisson—your face, Madame,” she added as she flung her visitor’s veil swiftly back. The cat leaped from her arms. Madame Villefranche sprang to her feet; the two women were confronting each other, each drawn to her full height.

André too had risen. Ha! At last he understood. The visitor was no other than the fair huntress of the woods who had driven to see the King, in an azure phaeton, herself clad in rose-coloured satin.

“Ah!” exclaimed Madame d’Étiolles, stretching her arms. “Ah!” Then she turned on the sorceress furiously. “My woman has betrayed me,” she cried.

“Oh, no, Madame”—she curtsied as to a queen—“not your woman but the crystal and yourself.”

The other threw up her head incredulously. “If you reveal,” she said harshly, “that I have visited you——”

“I never reveal who my visitors are,” was the quiet answer, “they always reveal themselves.” She sat down indolently, but there was almost insolent provocation in the simple grace of the movement.

Madame d’Étiolles turned away. “And your pay?” she demanded sharply.

“As Madame pleases,” came the indifferent answer from the sofa.

The visitor placed five pieces on the table, replaced her veil, and walked towards the door. “Adieu!” she said over her shoulder, but André could see she stepped as one intoxicated by a sublime vision.

“And will Madame remember the wise woman,” the sorceress pleaded in her soft voice, “if the crystal be found to speak the truth?”

“Yes”; she had wheeled sharply, a merciless freezing vengeance glistened in her eyes and steeled her voice. “I will have you burned for an insolent witch. I promise not to forget.”

“My thanks, Madame.” She rang the hand-bell, and Madame was unceremoniously ushered out. The sorceress sat reflecting and then placed the crystal in her bosom and took away the screen.

“It is the turn of Monsieur le Vicomte,” she remarked pleasantly. “It is a pity I did not ask the lady to stay and hear.”

“No, I thank you,” André answered. “I am satisfied, and so was she.”

“Monsieur is not as Madame,” the sorceress said, fixing a penetrating gaze on him, “he fears his fate.”

“Oh, no,” was the quick reply. “My fate lies in my sword and my head. I am ready to face it without fear or reproach when and as it comes. But I will not know beforehand, not even for a crown reversed.”

For a brief second her eyes rested on him with approval, and indeed he looked very handsome and noble at that moment.

“But Monsieur will permit me,” she said gently, and before he could refuse she had taken his hand, “I will not speak unless he wishes.”

While she studied it he studied her. What a subtle pathos seemed to lie in those blue eyes, those smiling lips, that dainty head almost touching him, a pathos like her perfume ascending into the brain. And how enchanting was that diamond cross rising and falling on that dazzling breast.

“What is it?” he asked, for she had dropped his hand with a faint sigh, and sat staring mysteriously at something far away.

“I am forbidden to speak,” she answered, averting her eyes, and she picked up her cat, and walked away.

“You shall tell me,” André said impetuously.

But she only laughed over the cat’s body, stroking it softly with her chin till its purr echoed through the room.

“Confess, confess,” he said, “I will know.”

“The hand of Monsieur le Vicomte,” she answered, smiling mischievously, “is full of interesting revelations—dreams which come and go—but there is one dream that is always there—the dream of love. Women,” she added, “women, women everywhere in Monsieur’s life; as in the years that were past, so in the years to come. Let the Vicomte de Nérac be on his guard against all women—and against one woman in particular——”

André failed to suppress an exclamation. Had this beautiful witch divined that secret too?

“Her name,” she paused to bury her face in the cat’s fur, “is—Yvonne—Yvonne,” she repeated, “of the Spotless Ankles.”

“Yvonne!” he laughed heartily.

“Yes, Yvonne. Sometimes there is more in a peasant girl to tempt and ruin than in a Comtesse des Forges, or a marquise—” it was her turn to laugh. “Ah! the Vicomte is a gallant and reckless lover. He thinks as the noblesse think, that women are necessary to him. But it is not so. It is he who is necessary to them.”

“And your fee for the advice, mistress?”

She flung the five gold pieces of Madame d’Étiolles into a drawer. “Madame has paid for both,” she said. “But if the Vicomte de Nérac will offer something of his own, I will accept—a kiss,” and she looked him daringly in the face.

The hall of the Château de Beau Séjour swept in a vision before him. Dieu Le Vengeur seemed to be written in a scroll of fire round the cat’s ruff.

“I understand,” she added with a contemptuous shrug of her shoulders, “though I am not a marquise or a comtesse.”

“You shall have it,” he blurted out with husky petulance.

She put her hand to her diamond cross—they looked at each other—the woman melted into a defiant reverence.

“The horse of Monsieur le Vicomte,” she commanded quickly to the girl who had appeared as if by magic. “Good-day, sir. You can pay the fee to—Yvonne.”

And here he was alone with the shifty-eyed fille de chambre, who plainly gave him an invitation to mistake her for Yvonne.

“Confound you, what do you wait for?” André said irritably. “Fetch the horse at once if you don’t want to taste a rogue’s fare with your mistress in prison.”

And as he rode through the woods it was little comfort to remember that he had won his wager with Henri, Comte de St. Benôit.