Until this time, he had been unable from his place of observation to see anything of the company in the chapel. But now, when the priest had ended the mournful chanting, little acolytes in scarlet cassocks and white cottas kindled the tapers upon the high altar and also those in a great chandelier beneath the rood-screen. The new light fell upon a reredos of marble and gold, almost hidden by vases of white flowers. It fell, too, upon the face of an old priest gorgeously robed in a jewelled cope. While taper-bearers and thurifers prostrated themselves before the Host in the monstrance, and a hidden choir began to sing very sweetly the Latin hymn, "O Salutaris Hostia," de Guyon had eyes for none of these, but only for the little group of worshippers who knelt by the chancel gates. Here were some twelve men and women, all seemingly absorbed in their devotions, all dressed very soberly, and for the most part in plain black. There was not a man amongst them that hid his hair in a wig; not a woman of the company that seemed to know of the coiffure à boucles badines, au berceau d'amour or au mirliton. Simplicity was the note of it all, and de Guyon, when he had shaken off his surprise, admitted that this simplicity was in pretty harmony with the sombre note of the chapel. He might have been watching so many monks and nuns who had clothed themselves in lay dress—but timidly.
In the centre of the little company, there knelt a girl whose face was hidden from him, but whose figure and pose were infinitely graceful. He was led to believe by the position she occupied that she must be the countess, and that the men at her side were the poets and philosophers who had come to the château to air their graces and to fill their stomachs. For the time being she was occupied entirely with her devotions, and when she raised the smallest of white hands, it was to bury her face in them while she prostrated herself before the upraised Host, Anon, however, the music died away suddenly; the last cloud of incense floated to the vaulted roof; the acolytes extinguished the candles before the altar, and the girl rose and passed down the chapel. De Guyon said to himself that the gossips were right. If a Madonna had come out of one of the pictures above the shrines, and had stood before him, lending flesh and blood to the painter's vision, he could scarce have been more surprised. Such a delicacy of form and feature he had hardly seen in all the six years he had been at Versailles; had never known eyes in which so much tenderness and emotion seemed to lie. He declared that her mouth was like a rosebud upon which the dew has just fallen. She held herself with the grace of a woman grown grey in practising the courtesies; yet her limbs had the roundness and suppleness of maturing youth. The black robe, falling from her shoulders prettily yet without panier, and set off only with lace at her neck and wrists, was her best adornment. She wore no jewels; not so much as a band of gold upon her arm. Her brown hair was simply coiled upon her head. De Guyon said to himself that Legros, with all his art, could not have added to the effect of it. And with this thought he left the chapel to await her in the courtyard.
Her greeting was simple, neither effusive nor lacking welcome.
"I have heard of you, Monsieur de Guyon, from my Cousin Claude," said she, when he had presented his letters to her; "you must be tired, indeed. Let us think of supper before we read even these letters"—and so turning to the group of men standing behind her, she added simply—
"Gentlemen, let me present you Monsieur de Guyon, a lieutenant of his Majesty's Guards. He has ridden far to serve us, and we must thank him by hastening to supper."
She passed on with a graceful inclination of her head, while servants conducted de Guyon to a room in the right wing of the château. Ten minutes later he was supping in the hall.
CHAPTER IV
THE KINGFISHER AND THE CROWS.
The lieutenant of the guard was a man to please. His scarlet coat slashed with gold, his fine lace and buckles, his gorgeous sword-belt, showed all the points of his lusty figure in their perfection. There was dormant intellect marked in his eyes, good temper in the well-balanced features of his face, which always wore a self-satisfied smile. Two studies alone occupied him at Versailles or Paris—the study of showy wit and of showy women. Seated by Gabrielle de Vernet's side in the hall of the château he was like a kingfisher among crows. A sense of superiority gave him confidence. He said to himself that it would be easy to shine in such a company.
The long table, lighted by heavy silver candelabra, was arranged in the form of a horse-shoe. The crows, broken down wits and poets, displaying a ripe eagerness for the repast, were at the lower end of the hall. A heavy-browed priest, with hanging cheeks and a purple cassock, sat upon the left hand of the hostess. There was armour in abundance upon the walls of the panelled apartment; and a choir in a gallery at the far end sang a Latin grace very prettily. And that done with, the lackeys busied themselves and the crows began to peck.
Until this moment, de Guyon had not exchanged two words with the girl upon his left hand, but the moment that hot soup was placed before him, he began to rack his brain for some pleasantry that should please. He had contrived to turn a pretty compliment, and was beginning to blurt it out, when to his great annoyance, she raised her finger, and whispered to him—
"We have yet to read the Gospel of the day."
De Guyon checked the words upon his lips, and turned to his dinner. Notwithstanding the pious hopes of the serving man that Pepin would not break his fast, there was meat set before the young lieutenant; and the crows, who were busy with dishes of carp and other unsavoury fish, turned greedy eyes upon his plate. Some fine old Burgundy helped him to wash down the repast, but the others, save the priest, drank a thin white wine, and their mouths shrank every time they raised their tumblers. Nor did one of them venture to open his lips, but sat with eyes cast down and unresting jaws, while a young man, who wore a cassock and bands, read the Gospel of the day, and afterwards a sermon by Massillon, of which the note was the ardent denunciation of all profligates. Then only was the floodgate of talk opened; then only did the crows begin to caw.
"Well, Monsieur de Guyon, and what news have you to tell me of Paris?"
The girl at the head of the table turned a pair of searching eyes upon him. Her face wore the suspicion of a smile. He felt that she was looking him through and through. And he returned her glance, putting on the air of a man who could not by any possibility conceal anything.
"Indeed, madame," said he, "I left the Barrière d'Enfer yesterday at daybreak. We count nothing news in Paris that is forty hours old. And it is a week since I have seen Madame de Boufflers."
"Who is better versed in the small talk of the day than any other lady in Paris. What a misfortune for you."
"It is no misfortune which brings me to the Château aux Loups."
She paid no heed to the compliment, resting her chin upon the back of an exceedingly white hand.
"But the people of the château amuse you very much?" she asked.
"We are never amused by that which we esteem."
She became thoughtful for a minute, continuing to keep her eyes upon him; but before she spoke again, the purple-robed priest upon her left hand turned from his meat for the first time.
"Present me to monsieur," said he.
"My kinsman, the Abbé Gondy,"