“Or did you need no information, mademoiselle?”

She met his look unflinching.

“I have not been sighing for tidings of the Comte de Mar, monsieur.”

“Because you have had tidings, mademoiselle?”

“No, monsieur, I have had no communication with M. de Mar since May—­until to-night.”

“And what has happened to-night?”

“To-night—­Paul appeared.”

“Paul!” ejaculated the duke, startled momentarily out of his phlegm.  “Paul here?”

“He was, monsieur, an hour ago.  He has since gone forth again, I know not whither or for what.”

Mayenne ruminated over this, pulling off his gloves slowly.

“Well?  What has this to do with Mar?”

She had no choice, though in evident fear of his displeasure, but to go through again the tale of the wager and letter.  She was moistening her dry lips as she finished, her eyes on his face wide with apprehension.  But he answered amiably, half absently, as if the whole affair were a triviality: 

“Never mind; I will give you a pair of gloves, Lorance.”

He stood smiling upon us as if amused for an idle moment over our childish games.  The colour came back to her cheeks; she made him a curtsey, laughing lightly.

“Then my grief is indeed cured, monsieur.  A new bit of finery is the best of balms for wounded self-esteem, is it not, Blanche?  I confess I am piqued; I had dared to imagine that my squire might remember me still after a month of absence.  I should have known it too much to ask of mortal man.  Not till the rivers run up-hill will you keep our memories green for more than a week, messieurs.”

“She turns it off well,” cried the little demoiselle in blue, Mlle. Blanche de Tavanne; “you would not guess that she will be awake the night long, weeping over M. de Mar’s defection.”

“I!” exclaimed Mlle. de Montluc; “I weep over his recreancy?  It is a far-fetched jest, my Blanche; can you invent no better?  The Comte de Mar—­behold him!”

She snatched a card from a tossed-down hand, holding it up aloft for us all to see.  It was by chance the knave of diamonds; the pictured face with its yellow hair bore, in my fancy at least, a suggestion of M. Etienne.

“Behold M. de Mar—­behold his fate!” With a twinkling of her white fingers she had torn the luckless knave into a dozen pieces and sent them whirling over her head to fall far and wide among the company.

[Illustration:  “I DO NOT FORGIVE HIS DESPATCHING ME HIS HORSE-BOY.”]

“Summary measures, mademoiselle!” quoth a grizzled warrior, with a laugh.  “Mordieu! have we your good permission to deal likewise with the flesh-and-blood Mar, when we go to arrest him for conspiring against the Holy League?”

But Mlle. de Tavanne’s quick tongue robbed him of his answer.

“Marry, you are severe on him, Lorance.  To be sure he does not come himself, but he sends so gallant a messenger!”