’Why, the King told the whole to the Duchess, so Berry said, and then drank the health of the daughter of the bravest of knights; and Berry held her up in his arms to bow again, and drink to them from his glass.  Berry looked a proud man, I can tell you, and a comely, spite of his baldness; and ’tis worth having come here to see how much you lads are thought of—­though to be sure ’tis not often the poor creatures here see so much of an Englishman as we have made of Berry.’

Philip could not but laugh. ’’Tis scarce for that that they value him, sir.’

’Say you so?  Nay, methinks his English heart and yours did them good service.  Indeed, the King himself told me as much by the mouth of Merrycourt.  May that youngster’s head only not be turned!  Why, they set him at table above Berenger, and above half the King’s gentlemen.  Even the Duchess makes as if he were one of her highest guests—­he a poor Oxford scholar, doubting if he can get his bread by the law, and flouted as though he were not good enough for my daughter.  ’Tis the world topsy turvy, sure enough!  And that this true love that Berenger has run through fire and water after, like a knight in a pedlar’s run through turn out a mere little, brown, common-looking woman after all, not one whit equal to Lucy!’

Sir Marmaduke modified his disappointment a little that night, when he had talked Philip into a state of feverishness and suffering that became worse under Madame de Quinet’s reproofs and remedies, and only yielded to Eustacie’s long and patient soothing.  He then could almost have owned that it was well she was not like his own cherished type of womanhood, and the next day he changed his opinion still more, even as to her appearance.

There was a great gathering of favourers of the Huguenot cause on that day; gentlemen came from all parts to consult with Henry of Navarre, and Madame de Quinet had too much sense of the fitness of things to allow Madame de Ribaumont to appear at the ensuing banquet in her shabby, rusty black serge, and tight white borderless cap.  The whole wardrobe of the poor young Duchess de Quinet was placed at her service, and though, with the thought of her adopted father on her heart, she refused gay colours, yet when, her toilette complete, she said into Philip’s room, he almost sprang up in delight, and Sir Marmaduke rose and ceremoniously bowed as to a stranger, and was only undeceived when little Rayonette ran joyously to Philip, asking if Manan was not si belle, si belle.

The effects of her unrestful nights has now passed away, and left her magnificent eyes in their full brilliancy and arch fire; the blooming glow was restored to her cheek; and though neck, brow, and hands were browner than in the shelter of convent or palace, she was far more near absolute beauty than in former days, both from countenance and from age.  Her little proud head was clustered with glossy locks of jet,