“He adores her.”

“Well, he will marry her then.  We shall have war with Spain.  M. Mazarin will spend a few of the millions he has put away; our gentlemen will perform prodigies of valor in their encounters with the proud Castilians, and many of them will return crowned with laurels, to be recrowned by us with myrtles.  Now, that is my view of politics.”

“Montalais, you are wild!” said Louise, “and every exaggeration attracts you as light does a moth.”

“Louise, you are so extremely reasonable, that you will never know how to love.”

“Oh!” said Louise, in a tone of tender reproach, “don’t you see, Montalais?  The queen-mother desires to marry her son to the Infanta; would you wish him to disobey his mother?  Is it for a royal heart like his to set such a bad example?  When parents forbid love, love must be banished.”

And Louise sighed:  Raoul cast down his eyes, with an expression of constraint.  Montalais, on her part, laughed aloud.

“Well, I have no parents!” said she.

“You are acquainted, without doubt, with the state of health of M. le Comte de la Fere?” said Louise, after breathing that sigh which had revealed so many griefs in its eloquent utterance.

“No, mademoiselle,” replied Raoul, “I have not let paid my respects to my father; I was going to his house when Mademoiselle de Montalais so kindly stopped me.  I hope the comte is well.  You have heard nothing to the contrary, have you?”

“No, M. Raoul — nothing, thank God!”

Here, for several instants, ensued a silence, during which two spirits, which followed the same idea, communicated perfectly, without even the assistance of a single glance.

“Oh, heavens!” exclaimed Montalais in a fright; “there is somebody coming up.”

“Who can it be?” said Louise, rising in great agitation.

“Mesdemoiselles, I inconvenience you very much.  I have, without doubt, been very indiscreet,” stammered Raoul, very ill at ease.

“It is a heavy step,” said Louise.

“Ah! if it is only M. Malicorne,” added Montalais, “do not disturb yourselves.”

Louise and Raoul looked at each other to inquire who M. Malicorne could be.

“There is no occasion to mind him,” continued Montalais; “he is not jealous.”

“But, mademoiselle — “said Raoul.

“Yes, I understand.  Well, he is discreet as I am.”

“Good heavens!” cried Louise, who had applied her ear to the door, which had been left ajar; “it is my mother’s step!”

“Madame de Saint-Remy!  Where shall I hide myself?” exclaimed Raoul, catching at the dress of Montalais, who looked quite bewildered.

“Yes,” said she; “yes, I know the clicking of those pattens!  It is our excellent mother.  M. le Vicomte, what a pity it is the window looks upon a stone pavement, and that fifty paces below it.”

Raoul glanced at the balcony in despair.  Louise seized his arm and held it tight.