'Ah!' she said, 'who would have thought that soft, youthful face

could be so severe! You would never forgive a deceit?'

'Never,' he said, with the crystal hardness of youth; 'or rather I

might forgive; I could never esteem.'

'What a bare, rude world yours must be,' she said, shivering. 'And

no weak ones in it! Only the strong can dare to be true.'

'Truth is strength!' said Berenger. 'For example: I see yonder a

face without bodily strength, perhaps, but with perfect candour.'

'Ah! some Huguenot girl of Madame Catherine's, no doubt--from the

depths of Languedoc, and dressed like a fright.'

'No, no; the young girl behind the pale, yellow-haired lady.'

'Comment, Monsieur. Do you not yet know the young Queen?'

'But who is the young demoiselle!--she with the superb black eyes,

and the ruby rose in her black hair?'

'Take care, sir, do you not know I have still a right to be

jealous?' she said, blushing, bridling, and laughing.

But this pull on the cords made him the more resolved; he would not

be turned from his purpose. 'Who is she?' he repeated; 'have I ever

seen her before? I am sure I remember that innocent look of

espieglerie.'

'You may see it on any child's face fresh out of the convent; it

does not last a month!' was the still displeased, rather jealous

answer. 'That little thing--I believe they call her Nid-de-Merle--

she has only just been brought from her nunnery to wait on the

young Queen. Ah! your gaze was perilous, it is bringing on you one

of the jests of Madame Marguerite.'

With laughter and gaiety, a troop of gentlemen descended on M. de

Ribaumont, and told him that Madame Marguerite desired that he

should be presented to her. The princess was standing by her pale

sister-in-law, Elizabeth of Austria, who looked grave and annoyed

at the mischievous mirth flashing in Marguerite's dark eyes.

'M. de Ribaumont,' said the latter, her very neck heaving with

suppressed fun, 'I see I cannot do you a greater favour than by

giving you Mademoiselle de Nid-de-Merle for your partner.'

Berenger was covered with confusion to find that he had been guilty

of such a fixed stare as to bring all this upon the poor girl. He

feared that his vague sense of recognition had made his gaze more

open than he knew, and he was really and deeply ashamed of this as

his worst act of provincial ill-breeding.

Poor little convent maid, with crimson cheeks, flashing eyes,

panting bosom, and a neck evidently aching with proud dignity and

passion, she received his low bow with a sweeping curtsey, as lofty

as her little person would permit.




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