Veronique, a round-faced Angevin girl—­who, like her lady, had not parted with all her rustic simplicity and honesty, and who had been necessarily taken into their confidence—­was standing apart from the whirl of confusion, holding the leashes of two or three little dogs that had been confided to her care, that their keepers might with more ease throw themselves into the melee.  Her face lighted up as she saw the Baron de Ribaumont arrive.

’Ah, sir, Madame will be so happy that I have seen Monsieur once more,’ she exclaimed under her breath, as he approached her.

‘Alas! there is not a moment to write,’ he said, looking at the vehicle, already fast filling, ’but give her these flowers; they were gathered for her; give her ten thousand thanks for her token.  Tell her to hold firm, and that neither king nor queen, bolt nor bar, shall keep me from her.  Tell her, our watchword is HOPE.’

The sharp eyes of the duenna of the Queen’s household, a rigid Spanish dame, were already searching for stray members of her flock, and Veronique had to hurry to her place, while Berenger remained to hatch new plans, each wilder than the last, and torment himself with guesses whether his project had been discovered.  Indeed, there were moments when he fancied the frustration of his purpose the special object of Queen Catherine’s journey, but he had the wisdom to keep any such suggestion to himself.

The King came back by supper-time, looking no longer in a state of indecision, but pale and morose.  He spoke to no one as he entered, and afterwards took his place at the head of the supper-table in silence, which he did not break till the meal was nearly over.  Then he said abruptly, ’Gentlemen, our party has been broken up, and I imagine that after our great hunt tomorrow, no one will have any objection to return to Paris.  We shall have merrier sport at Fontainebleau when this most troublesome of weddings is over.’

There was nothing to be done but to bow acquiescence, and the King again became grimly silent.  After supper he challenged Coligny to a game of chess, and not a word passed during the protracted contest, either from the combatants or any other person in the hall.  It was as if the light had suddenly gone out to others besides the disappointed and anxious Berenger, and a dull shadow had fallen on the place only yesterday so lively, joyous, and hopeful.

Berenger, chained by the etiquette of the royal presence, sat like a statue, his back against the wall, his arms crossed on his breast, his eyes fixed, chewing the cud of the memories of his dream of bliss, or striving to frame the future to his will, and to decide what was the next reasonable step he could take, or whether his irrepressible longing to ride straight off to Monceaux, claim his wife, and take her on horseback behind him, were a mere impracticable vision.