But further sapient discourse on the part of Henri was summarily put an end to by his mother’s ordering him to kneel down and say his prayers, and afterwards bundling him into bed,—­where, being sleepy, he speedily forgot all that he had been trying to talk about.  Babette took more time in retiring to rest.  She had very pretty, curly, brown hair, and Madame Patoux took a pride in brushing and plaiting it neatly.

“I may be like Diane de Poitiers after all,” she remarked, peering at herself in the small mirror when her thick locks were smoothed and tied back for the night—­“Why should I not be?”

“Because Diane de Poitiers was a wicked woman,” said Madame Patoux energetically,—­“and thou must learn to be a good girl.”

“But if Diane de Poitiers was bad, why do they talk so much about her even now, and put her in all the histories, and show her house, and say she was beautiful?” went on Babette.

“Because people are foolish,” said Madame, getting impatient—­ “Foolish people run after bad women, and bad women run after foolish people.  Now say thy prayers.”

Obediently Babette knelt down, shut her eyes close, clasped her hands hard, and murmured the usual evening formula, heaving a small sigh after her “act of contrition,” and looking almost saintly as she commended herself to her “angel guardian.”  Then her mother kissed her, saying—­

“Good-night, little daughter!  Think of Our Lady and the saints, and then ask them to keep us safe from evil.  Good-night!”

“Good-night.” responded Babette sleepily,—­but all the same she did not think of Our Lady and the saints half as much as of Diane de Poitiers.  There are few daughters of Eve to whom conquest does not seem a finer thing than humility; and the sovereignty of Diane de Poitiers over a king, seems to many a girl just conscious of her own charm, a more emphatic testimony to the supremacy of her sex, than the Angel’s greeting of “Blessed art thou!” to the elected Virgin of the world.

III.

Meanwhile a somewhat embarrassing interview had taken place between the Archbishop of Rouen and Cardinal Bonpre.  The archbishop, seen by the light of the one small lamp which illumined the “best room” of the Hotel Poitiers was certainly a handsome and imposing personage, broad-chested and muscular, with a massive head, well set on strong square shoulders, admirably adapted for the wearing of the dark violet soutane which fitted them as gracefully as a royal vesture draping the figure of a king.  One disproportionate point, however, about his attire was, that the heavy gold crucifix which depended by a chain from his neck, did not, with him, look so much a sacred symbol as a trivial ornament,—­whereas the simple silver one that gleamed against the rusty black scarlet-edged cassock of Cardinal Bonpre, presented itself as the plain and significant sign of holiness without the aid of jewellers’ workmanship to