‘Who is that?’ my mother asked softly. ‘I am ill. She must excuse me.’ She pointed with her fragile finger to my companions. I rose, and still keeping her hand in mine, turned so as to face the hearth. ‘This, madame,’ I answered formally, ‘is Mademoiselle--, but her name I will commit to you later, and in private. Suffice it to say that she is a lady of rank, who has been committed to my charge by a high personage.’ ‘A high personage?’ my mother repeated gently, glancing at me with a smile of gratification. ‘One of the highest,’ I said, ‘Such a charge being a great honour to me, I felt that I could not better execute it madame, since we must lie in Blois one night, than by requesting your hospitality on her behalf.’ I dared mademoiselle as I spoke--I dared her with my eye to contradict or interrupt me. For answer, she looked at me once, inclining her head a little, and gazing at us from under her long eyelashes. Then she turned back to the fire, and her foot resumed its angry tapping on the floor. ‘I regret that I cannot receive her better,’ my mother answered feebly. ‘I have had losses of late. I--but I will speak of that at another time. Mademoiselle doubtless knows,’ she continued with dignity, ‘you and your position in the south too well to think ill of the momentary straits to which she finds me reduced.’ I saw mademoiselle start, and I writhed under the glance of covert scorn, of amazed indignation, which she shot at me. But my mother gently patting my hand, I answered patiently, ‘Mademoiselle will think only what is kind, madame--of that I am assured. And lodgings are scarce to-night in Blois.’ ‘But tell me of yourself, Gaston,’ my mother cried eagerly; and I had not the heart, with her touch on my hand, her eyes on my face, to tear myself away, much as I dreaded what was coming, and longed to end the scene. ‘Tell me of yourself. You are still in favour with the king of--I will not name him here?’ ‘Still, madame,’ I answered, looking steadily at mademoiselle, though my face burned. ‘You are still--he consults you, Gaston?’ ‘Still, madame.’ My mother heaved a happy sigh, and sank lower in the bed. ‘And your employments?’ she murmured, her voice trembling with gratification. ‘They have not been reduced? You still retain them, Gaston?’ ‘Still, madame,’ I answered, the perspiration standing on my brow, my shame almost more than I could bear. ‘Twelve thousand livres a year, I think?’ ‘The same, madame.’ ‘And your establishment? How many do you keep now? Your valet, of course? And lackeys--how many at present?’ She glanced, with an eye of pride, while she waited for my answer, first at the two silent figures by the fire, then at the poverty-stricken room; as if the sight of its bareness heightened for her the joy of my prosperity.