A sudden colour rose into her cheeks.  For the hour that followed, she devoted herself to her cousin.  But Mrs. Welby was difficult and querulous.  Amongst other complaints she expressed herself bitterly as to the appearance of Mr. Fenwick at Versailles.  Arthur had been so taken aback—­Mr. Fenwick was always so atrociously rude to him!  Arthur would have never come to Versailles had he known; but of course, as Uncle Findon and Eugenie liked Mr. Fenwick, as he was their friend, Arthur couldn’t now avoid meeting him.  It was extremely disagreeable.

‘I think they needn’t meet very much,’ said Eugenie, soothingly—­’and papa and I will do our best to keep Mr. Fenwick in order.’

‘I wonder why he came,’ said Elsie, fretfully.

’He has some work to do for the production of this play on Marie Antoinette.  And I suppose he wanted to meet us.  You see, we didn’t know about Arthur.’

‘I can’t think why you like him so much.’

’He is an old friend, my dear!—­and just now very unhappy, and out of spirits.’

‘All his own fault, Arthur says.  He had the ball at his feet.’

‘I know,’ said Eugenie, smiling sadly.  ‘That’s the tragedy of it!’

There was silence.  Mrs. Welby still observed her companion.  A variety of expressions, all irritable or hostile, passed through the large, languid eyes.

* * * * *

The afternoon faded—­on the blue surface of the distant ‘canal,’ the great poplars that stand sentinel at the western edge of the Park, one to right, and one to left—­last gardes du corps of the House of France!—­threw long shadows on the water; and across the opening which they marked, drifted the smoke of burning weeds, the only but sufficient symbol, amid the splendid scene, of that peasant France which destroyed Versailles.  It was four o’clock, and to their left, as they sat sheltered on the southern side of the chateau, the visitors of the day were pouring out into the gardens.  The shutters of the lower rooms, in the apartments of the Dauphin and of Mesdames, were being closed one by one, by the gardiens within.  Eugenie peered through the window beside her.  She saw before her a long vista of darkened and solitary rooms, dim portraits of the marshals of France just visible on their walls.  Suddenly—­under a gleam of light from a shutter not yet fastened—­there shone out amid the shadows a bust of Louis Seize!  The Bourbon face, with its receding brow, its heavy, good-natured lips, its smiling incapacity, held—­dominated—­the palace.

Eugenie watched, holding her breath.  Slowly the light died; the marble withdrew into the dark; and Louis Seize was once more with the ghosts.

Eugenie’s fancy pursued him.  She thought of the night of the 20th of January, 1793, when Madame Royale, in the darkness of the Temple, heard her mother turning miserably on her bed, sleepless with grief and cold, waiting for that last rendezvous of seven o’clock which the King had promised her—­waiting—­waiting—­till the great bell of Notre Dame told her that Louis had passed to another meeting, more urgent, more peremptory still.