Diane explained that in that case it was needless to come to her, but added, with the vraisemblance of falsehood in which she had graduated in Catherine’s school, ’Veronique, as I told you, you were mistaken.’

’Ah, Mademoiselle, if M. le Baron lives, she will be cured at once.’

‘Silly girl,’ said Diane, giving relief to her pent-up feeling by asperity of manner, ’how could he live when you and your intrigues got him into the palace on such a night?  Dead he is, OF COURSE; but it was your own treacherous, mischievous fancy that laid it on my brother.  He was far away with M. de Guise at the attack on the Admiral.  It was some of Monsieur’s grooms you saw.  You remember she had brought him into a scrape with Monsieur, and it was sure to be remembered.  And look you, if you repeat the other tale, and do not drive it out of her head, you need not look to be long with her—­no, nor at home.  My father will have no one there to cause a scandal by an evil tongue.’

That threat convinced Veronique that she had been right; but she, too, had learnt lessons at the Louvre, and she was too diplomatic not to ask pardon for her blunder, promise to contradict it when her mistress could listen, and express her satisfaction that it was not the Chevalier Narcisse—­for such things were not pleasant, as she justly observed, in families.

About noon on the Tuesday the Louvre was unusually tranquil.  All the world had gone forth to a procession to Notre Dame, headed by the King and all the royal family, to offer thanksgiving for the deliverance of the country from the atrocious conspiracy of the Huguenots.  Eustacie’s chamber was freed from the bustle of all the maids of honour arraying themselves, and adjusting curls, feathers, ruffs and jewels; and such relief as she was capable of experiencing she felt in the quiet.

Veronique hoped she would sleep, and watched like a dragon to guard against any disturbance, springing out with upraised finger when a soft gliding step and rustling of brocade was heard.  ’Does she sleep?’ said a low voice; and Veronique, in the pale thin face with tear-swollen eyes and light yellow hair, recognized the young Queen.  ‘My good girl,’ said Elisabeth, with almost a beseeching gesture, ‘let me see her.  I do not know when again I may be able.’

Veronique stood aside, with the lowest possible of curtseys, just as her mistress with a feeble, weary voice murmured, ’Oh, make them let me alone!’

‘My poor, poor child,’ said the Queen, bending over Eustacie, while her brimming eyes let the tears fall fast, ’I will not disturb you long, but I could not help it.’

‘Her Majesty!’ exclaimed Eustacie, opening wide her eyes in amazement.

‘My dear, suffer me here a little moment,’ said the meek Elisabeth, seating herself so as to bring her face near to Eustacie’s; ’I could not rest till I had seen how it was with you and wept with you.’