“And waylay the archbishop?”

“No; the messengers.”

“Oh, excellent!  You are a prince of brothers!  If no message reaches Paris, we are saved.  Go; go; do not lose a moment, my dear Charles.”

“It is very well, Francoise; but what are we to do with them when we get them?  We may lose our heads over the matter, it seems to me.  After all, they are the king’s messengers, and we can scarce pass our swords through them.”

“No?”

“There would be no forgiveness for that.”

“But consider that before the matter is looked into I shall have regained my influence with the king.”

“All very fine, my little sister, but how long is your influence to last?  A pleasant life for us if at every change of favour we have to fly the country!  No, no, Francoise; the most that we can do is to detain the messengers.”

“Where can you detain them?”

“I have an idea.  There is the castle of the Marquis de Montespan at Portillac.”

“Of my husband!”

“Precisely.”

“Of my most bitter enemy!  Oh, Charles, you are not serious.”

“On the contrary, I was never more so.  The marquis was away in Paris yesterday, and has not yet returned.  Where is the ring with his arms?”

She hunted among her jewels and picked out a gold ring with a broad engraved face.

“This will be our key.  When good Marceau, the steward, sees it, every dungeon in the castle will be at our disposal.  It is that or nothing.  There is no other place where we can hold them safe.”

“But when my husband returns?”

“Ah, he may be a little puzzled as to his captives.  And the complaisant Marceau may have an evil quarter of an hour.  But that may not be for a week, and by that time, my little sister, I have confidence enough in you to think that you really may have finished the campaign.  Not another word, for every moment is of value.  Adieu, Francoise!  We shall not be conquered without a struggle.  I will send a message to you to-night to let you know how fortune uses us.”  He took her fondly in his arms, kissed her, and then hurried from the room.

For hours after his departure she paced up and down with noiseless steps upon the deep soft carpet, her hand still clenched, her eyes flaming, her whole soul wrapped and consumed with jealousy and hatred of her rival.  Ten struck, and eleven, and midnight, but still she waited, fierce and eager, straining her ears for every foot-fall which might be the herald of news.  At last it came.  She heard the quick step in the passage, the tap at the ante-room door, and the whispering of her black page.  Quivering with impatience, she rushed in and took the note herself from the dusty cavalier who had brought it.  It was but six words scrawled roughly upon a wisp of dirty paper, but it brought the colour back to her cheeks and the smile to her lips.  It was her brother’s writing, and it ran:  “The archbishop will not come to-night.”