| PAGE | |
| “The Vicomte Henceforth Cannot without Harming Himself Visit Publicly a Bourgeoise Grisette” | Frontispiece |
| Statham Sat Pondering, His Eyes Riveted on the Crossed Daggers | 6 |
| “Is That Letter to the Comtesse des Forges, One of My Friends—My Friends, Mon Dieu!—Yours, or Is It not?” | 48 |
| “Fair Archeress,” He Said, “Surely the Shafts You Loose Are Mortal” | 88 |
| Yes, that is Monseigneur le Maréchal de Saxe, Carried in a Wicker Litter, for He Cannot Sit His Horse | 124 |
| Madame de Pompadour | 188 |
| The Curtain Was Sharply Flung aside, and He Saw Denise | 204 |
| Yvonne Very Modestly Disengaged the Arm which for the First Time He Had Slipped about Her Supple Waist | 234 |
| Yvonne with a Finger to Her Lips, Holding Her Petticoats off the Floor, Stole In, and behind Her a Stranger | 268 |
| The Candle Fell from Her Hand. “Gone!” She Muttered Feebly, “Gone!” | 320 |
| “Yvonne, of Course; Yvonne of the Spotless Ankles,” She Lifted Her Dress a Few Inches | 350 |