Was it his gout, perhaps?  Or was it possible that she was again losing her hold upon him?  Surely it could not be that!  She turned upon her couch and faced the mirror which flanked the door.  The candles had just been lit in her chamber, two score of them, each with silver backs which reflected their light until the room was as bright as day.  There in the mirror was the brilliant chamber, the deep red ottoman, and the single figure in its gauzy dress of white and silver.  She leaned upon her elbow, admiring the deep tint of her own eyes with their long dark lashes, the white curve of her throat, and the perfect oval of her face.  She examined it all carefully, keenly, as though it were her rival that lay before her, but nowhere could she see a scratch of Time’s malicious nails.  She still had her beauty, then.  And if it had once won the king, why should it not suffice to hold him?  Of course it would do so.  She reproached herself for her fears.  Doubtless he was indisposed, or perhaps he would come still.  Ha! there was the sound of an opening door and of a quick step in her ante-room.  Was it he, or at least his messenger with a note from him?

But no, it was her brother, with the haggard eyes and drawn face of a man who is weighed down with his own evil tidings.  He turned as he entered, fastened the door, and then striding across the room, locked the other one which led to her boudoir.

“We are safe from interruption,” he panted.  “I have hastened here, for every second may be invaluable.  Have you heard anything from the king?”

“Nothing.”  She had sprung to her feet, and was gazing at him with a face which was as pale as his own.

“The hour has come for action, Francoise.  It is the hour at which the Mortemarts have always shown at their best.  Do not yield to the blow, then, but gather yourself to meet it.”

“What is it?” She tried to speak in her natural tone, but only a whisper came to her dry lips.

“The king is about to marry Madame de Maintenon.”

“The gouvernante!  The widow Scarron!  It is impossible!”

“It is certain.”

“To marry?  Did you say to marry?”

“Yes, he will marry her.”

The woman flung out her hands in a gesture of contempt, and laughed loud and bitterly.

“You are easily frightened, brother,” said she.  “Ah, you do not know your little sister.  Perchance if you were not my brother you might rate my powers more highly.  Give me a day, only one little day, and you will see Louis, the proud Louis, down at the hem of my dress to ask my pardon for this slight.  I tell you that he cannot break the bonds that hold him.  One day is all I ask to bring him back.”

“But you cannot have it.”

“What?”

“The marriage is to-night.”

“You are mad, Charles.”

“I am certain of it.”  In a few broken sentences he shot out all that he had seen and heard.  She listened with a grim face, and hands which closed ever tighter and tighter as he proceeded.  But he had said the truth about the Mortemarts.  They came of a contentious blood, and were ever at their best at a moment of action.  Hate rather than dismay filled her heart as she listened, and the whole energy of her nature gathered and quickened to meet the crisis.