‘All, except those that the King called into his own garde robe.’

‘Then, I slew him!’ Eustacie sank back.

‘I tell you, child,’ said Diane, almost angrily, ’he lives.  Not a hair of his head was to be hurt!  The girl deceives you.’

But Eustacie had again become insensible, and awoke delirious, entreating to have the door opened, and fancying herself still on the revolving elysium, ‘Oh, demons, have pity!’ was her cry.

Diane’s soothings were like speaking to the winds; and at last she saw the necessity of calling in further aid; but afraid of the scandal that the poor girl’s raving accusations might create, she would not send for the Huguenots surgeon, Ambroise Pare, whom the King had carefully secured in his own apartments, but employed one of the barber valets of the Queen-mother’s household.  Poor Eustacie was well pleased to see her blood flowing, and sank back on her pillow murmuring that she had confessed her husband’s faith, and would soon be one with him, and Diane feared for a moment lest the swoon should indeed be death.

The bleeding was so far effectual that it diminished the fever, and Eustacie became rational again when she had dozed and wakened, but she was little able or willing to speak, and would not so much as listen to Diane’s asseverations that Veronique had made a frightful error, and that the Baron would prove to be alive.  Whether it were that the admission that Diane had known of the project for preventing the elopement that invalidated her words, or whether the sufferer’s instinct made her believe Veronique’s testimony rather than her cousin’s assurances, it was all ’cramming words into her ear against the stomach of her sense,’ and she turned away from them with a piteous, petulant hopelessness:  ’Could they not even let her alone to die in peace!’

Diane was almost angered at this little silly child being in such an agony of sorrow—­she, who could never have known how to love him.  And after all this persistent grief was willfully thrown away.  For Diane spoke in perfect sincerity when she taxed Veronique with an injurious, barbarous mistake.  She knew her father’s strong aversion to violence, and the real predilection that Berenger’s good mien, respectful manners, and liberal usage had won from him, and she believed he had much rather the youth lived, provided he were inoffensive.  No doubt a little force had been necessary to kidnap one so tall, active, and determined, and Veronique had made up her horrible tale after the usual custom of waiting-maids.

Nothing else SHOULD be true.  Did she think otherwise, she should be even more frantic than Eustacie!  Why, it would be her own doing!  She had betrayed the day of the escape—­she had held aloof from warning.  There was pleasure in securing Nid-de-Merle for her brother, pleasure in balking the foolish child who had won the heart that disregarded her.  Nay, there might have been even pleasure