a large state-bedroom to a much smaller one, which he entered from under a heavy blue velvet curtain, and found himself in an atmosphere heavy with warmth and perfume, and strangely oppressed besides.  On one side of the large fire sat the young Queen, faded, wan, and with all animation or energy departed, only gazing with a silent, wistful intentness at her husband. he was opposite to her in a pillowed chair, his feet on a stool, with a deadly white, padded, puffy cheek, and his great black eyes, always prominent, now with a glassy look, and strained wide, as though always gazing after some horrible sight.  ’Madame la Comtesse stood in her old, wooden, automaton fashion behind the Queen; otherwise, no one was present save Pare, who, as he held up the curtain, stood back to let M. de Ribaumont advance.  He stood still, however, merely bowing low, awaiting an invitation to come forward, and trying to repress the startled tear called up by the very shock of pity at the mournful aspect of the young King and Queen.

Elisabeth, absorbed in her husband, and indifferent to all besides, did not even turn her head as he entered; but Charles signed to him to approach, holding out a yellow, dropsical-looking hand; and as he dropped on one knew and kissed it fervently, the King said, ’Here he is, Madame, the Baron de Ribaumont, the same whose little pleasure-boat was sucked down in our whirlpool.

All Elisabeth’s memories seemed to have been blotted out in that whirlpool, for she only bowed her head formally, and gave no look of recognition, though she, too, allowed Berenger to salute her listless, dejected hand.  ’One would hardly have known him again, continued the King, in a low husky voice; ’but I hope, sir, I see you recovering.

’Thanks, Sire, to Heaven’s goodness, and to your goodness in sparing to me the services of Maitre Pare.

‘Ah! there is none like Pare for curing a wound OUTSIDE,’ said Charles, then leant back silent; and Berenger, still kneeling, was considering whether he ought to proffer his petition, when the King continued, ’How fares your friend Sidney, M. le Baron?

’Right well, Sire.  The Queen has made him one of her gentlemen.

‘Not after this fashion,’ said Charles, as with his finger he traced the long scar on Berenger’s face.  ’Our sister of England has different badges of merit from ours for her good subjects.  Ha! what say they of us in England, Baron?

’I have lain sick at home, Sire, and have neither seen nor heard, said Berenger.

‘Ah! one day more at Montpipeau had served your turn,’ said the King; ’but you are one who has floated up again.  One—­one at least whose blood is not on my head.

The Queen looked up uneasy and imploring, as Charles continued:  ’Would that more of you would come in this way!  They have scored you deep, but know you what is gashed deeper still?  Your King’s heart!  Ah! you will not come, as Coligny does, from his gibbet, with his two bleeding hands.  My father was haunted to his dying day by the face of one Huguenot tailor.  Why, I see a score, night by night!  You are solid; let me feel you, man.