“Ohe!  Marie,” called one stout dame to another, who stood smiling in her doorway near by.  “See the fine coach coming.  That is the sort you and I shall have one of these days, now that the king is dead.  God bless the new king, and may he die young!  A plague to all kings, Marie.  And now come and sit with my man and me, for we’ve a bottle left, and while it lasts we drink freedom from all kings!”

“You speak words of gold, Suzanne,” was the reply.  “Surely I will drink with you, and wish a pleasant and speedy death to kings.”

“But now, Marie,” said the other, argumentatively, “as to my good duke regent, that is otherwise.  It goes about that he will change all things.  One is to amuse one’s self now and then, and not to work forever for the taxes and the conscription.  Long live the regent, then, say I!”

“Yes, and let us hope that regents never turn to kings.  There are to be new days here in France.  We people, aye, my faith!  We people, so they say, are to be considered.  True, we shall have carriages one day, Marie, like that of my Lord who passes.”

John Law and his companions heard broken bits of such speech as this as they passed on.

“Ah, they talk,” replied he at last, turning toward his companions, “and this is talk which means something.  Within the year we shall see Paris upside down.  These people are ready for any new thing.  But”—­and his face lost some of its gravity—­“the streets are none too safe to-day, my Lady.  Therefore you must forgive me if I do not set you down, but keep you prisoner until you reach your own gates.  ’Tis not your fault that your carriage broke down on the road from Marly; and as for my brother Will and myself, we can not forego a good fortune which enables us at last to destroy a certain long-standing debt of a carriage ride given us, once upon a time, by the Lady Catharine Knollys.”

“At least, then, we shall be well acquit on both sides,” replied the soft voice of the woman.  “I may, perhaps, be an unwilling prisoner for so short a time.”

“Madam, I would God it might be forever!”

It was the same John Law of old who made this impetuous reply, and indeed he seemed scarce changed by the passing of these few years of time.  It was the audacious youth of the English highway who now looked at her with grave face, yet with eyes that shone.

Some years had indeed passed since Law, turning his back upon the appeal of the wide New World, had again set foot upon the shores of England, from which his departure had been so singular.  Driven by the goads of remorse, it had been his first thought to seek out the Lady Catharine Knollys; and so intent had he been on this quest, that he learned almost without emotion of the king’s pardon which had been entered, discharging him of further penalty of the law of England.  Meeting Lady Catharine, he learned, as have others since and before him, that a human soul may have laws inflexible; that the iron bars of a woman’s resolve may bar one out, even as prison doors may bar him in.  He found the Lady Catharine unshakeable in her resolve not to see him or speak with him.  Whereat he raged, expostulated by post, waited, waylaid, and so at length gained an interview, which taught him many things.