Lady Emily Warrington, slender, elegant, well clad, and for the most part languorously calm, was in a state of excitement quite without her customary aplomb.  She sank into a seat, fanning herself with a vigor which threatened ruin to the precious slats of a fan which bore the handiwork of Watteau.

“The streets are full of it,” said she.  “Have you not heard, really?”

“I must say, not yet.  But what is it?”

“Why, the quarrel between the regent and his director-general, Mr. Law.”

“No, I have not heard of it.”  Lady Catharine sought refuge behind her own fan.  “But tell me” she continued.

“But that is not all.  ’Twas the reason for the quarrel.  Paris is all agog.  ’Twas about a woman!”

“You mean—­there was—­a woman?”

“Yes, it all happened last night, at the Palais Royal.  The woman is dead—­died last night.  ’Tis said she fell in a fit at the very table—­’twas at a little supper given by the regent—­and that when they came to her she was quite dead.”

“But Mr. Law—­”

“’Twas he that killed her!”

“Good God!  What mean you?” cried Lady Catharine, her own face blanching behind her protecting fan.  The blood swept back upon her heart, leaving her cold as a statue.

“Why,” continued the caller, in her own excitement to tell the news scarce noting what went on before her, “it seems that this mysterious beauty of the regent’s, of whom there has been so much talk, proved to be none other than a former mistress of this same Mr. Law, who is reputed to have been somewhat given to that sort of thing, though of late monstrous virtuous, for some cause or other.  Mr. Law came suddenly upon her at the table of the regent, arrayed in some kind of savage finery—­for ’twas in fashion a mask that evening, as you must know.  And what doth my director-general do, so high and mighty?  Why, in spite of the regent and in spite of all those present, he upbraids her, taunts her, reviles her, demanding that she fall on her knees before him, as it seems indeed she would have done—­as, forsooth, half the dames of Paris would do to-day!  Then, all of a sudden, my Lord Director changes, and he craves pardon of the woman and of the regent, and so stalks off and leaves the room!  And now then the poor creature walks to the table, would lift a glass of wine, and so—­’tis over!  ’Twas like a play!  Indeed all Paris is like a play nowadays.  Of course you know the rest.”

A gesture of negative came from the hand that lay in Lady Catharine’s lap.  The busy gossip went on.

“The regent, be sure, was angry enough at this cheapening of his own wares before all, and perhaps ’tis true he had a fancy for the woman.  At any rate, ’tis said that this very morning he quarreled hotly with Mr. Law.  The latter gave back words hot as he received, and so they had it violent enough.  ’Tis stated on the Quinquempoix that another must take Mr. Law’s place.