They had passed through the gateway of the palace, and the broad sweeping drive lay in front of them, dotted with carriages and horsemen.  On the gravel walks were many gaily dressed ladies, who strolled among the flower-beds or watched the fountains with the sunlight glinting upon their high water sprays.  One of these, who had kept her eyes turned upon the gate, came hastening forward the instant that De Catinat appeared.  It was Mademoiselle Nanon, the confidante of Madame de Maintenon.

“I am so pleased to see you, captain,” she cried, “and I have waited so patiently.  Madame would speak with you.  The king comes to her at three, and we have but twenty minutes.  I heard that you had gone to Paris, and so I stationed myself here.  Madame has something which she would ask you.”

“Then I will come at once.  Ah, De Brissac, it is well met!”

A tall, burly officer was passing in the same uniform which De Catinat wore.  He turned at once, and came smiling towards his comrade.

“Ah, Amory, you have covered a league or two from the dust on your coat!”

“We are fresh from Paris.  But I am called on business.  This is my friend, Monsieur Amos Green.  I leave him in your hands, for he is a stranger from America, and would fain see all that you can show.  He stays with me at my quarters.  And my horse, too, De Brissac.  You can give it to the groom.”

Throwing the bridle to his brother officer, and pressing the hand of Amos Green, De Catinat sprang from his horse, and followed at the top of his speed in the direction which the young lady had already taken.

CHAPTER VIII.

THE RISING SUN.

The rooms which were inhabited by the lady who had already taken so marked a position at the court of France were as humble as were her fortunes at the time when they were allotted to her, but with that rare tact and self-restraint which were the leading features in her remarkable character, she had made no change in her living with the increase of her prosperity, and forbore from provoking envy and jealousy by any display of wealth or of power.  In a side wing of the palace, far from the central salons, and only to be reached by long corridors and stairs, were the two or three small chambers upon which the eyes, first of the court, then of France, and finally of the world, were destined to be turned.  In such rooms had the destitute widow of the poet Scarron been housed when she had first been brought to court by Madame de Montespan as the governess of the royal children, and in such rooms she still dwelt, now that she had added to her maiden Francoise d’Aubigny the title of Marquise de Maintenon, with the pension and estate which the king’s favour had awarded her.  Here it was that every day the king would lounge, finding in the conversation of a clever and virtuous woman a charm and a pleasure which none of