’Shallow schoolboys certainly form no part of my study, save to kick them down-stairs when they grow impudent,’ said Narcisse, coolly.  ‘It is only women who think what is long must be grand.’

‘Come, children, no disputes,’ said the Chevalier.  ’Of course we regret that so fine a youth mixed himself up with the enemies of the kingdom, like the stork among the sparrows.  Both Diane and I are sorry for the necessity; but remember, child, that when he was interfering between your brother and his just right of inheritance and destined wife, he could not but draw such a fate on himself.  Now all is smooth, the estates will be united in their true head, and you—­you too, my child, will be provided for as suits your name.  All that is needed is to soothe the little one, so as to hinder her from making an outcry—­and silence the maid; my child will do her best for her father’s sake, and that of her family.’

Diane was less demonstrative than most of her countrywomen.  She had had time to recollect the uselessness of giving vent to her indignant anguish, and her brother’s derisive look held her back.  The family tactics, from force of habit, recurred to her; she made no further objection to her father’s commands; but when her father and brother parted with her, she tottered into the now empty chapel, threw herself down, with her burning forehead on the stone step, and so lay for hours.  It was not in prayer.  It was because it was the only place where she could be alone.  To her, heaven above and earth below seemed alike full of despair, darkness, and cruel habitations, and she lay like one sick with misery and repugnance to the life and world that lay before her—­the hard world that had quenched that one fair light and mocked her pity.  It was a misery of solitude, and yet no thought crossed her of going to weep and sympathize with the other sufferer.  No; rivalry and jealousy came in there!  Eustacie viewed herself as his wife, and the very thought that she had been deliberately preferred and had enjoyed her triumph hardened Diane’s heart against her.  Nay, the open violence and abandonment of her grief seemed to the more restrained and concentrated nature of her elder a sign of shallowness and want of durability; and in a certain contemptuous envy at her professing a right to mourn, Diane never even reconsidered her own resolution to play out her father’s game, consign Eustacie to her husband’s murdered, and leave her to console herself with bridal splendours and a choice of admirers from all the court.

However, for the present Diane would rather stay away as much as possible from the sick-bed of the poor girl; and when an approaching step forced her to rouse herself and hurry away by the other door of the chapel, she did indeed mount to the ladies’ bed-chamber, but only to beckon Veronique out of hearing and ask for her mistress.

Just the same still, only sleeping to have feverish dreams of the revolving wheel or the demons grappling her husband, refusing all food but a little drink, and lying silent except for a few moans, heedless who spoke or looked at her.