Were it not better to leave the court, where only danger surrounded them, and find safety on Leicester’s own estate, where no man living could molest them? Were it not well to leave Michel de la Forêt to his fate, whatever it would be? Thrice within a week the Queen had sent for De la Forêt--what reason was there for that, unless the Queen had a secret personal interest in him? Did M. Aubert think it was only a rare touch of humor which had turned De la Forêt into a preacher, and set his fate upon a sermon to be preached before the court? He himself had long held high office, had been near to her Majesty, and he could speak with more knowledge than he might use--it grieved him that Mademoiselle Aubert should be placed in so painful a position. Sometimes as the two talked Angèle would join them; and then there was a sudden silence, which made her flush with embarrassment, anxiety, or anger. In vain did she assume a cold composure, in vain school herself to treat Leicester with a precise courtesy; in vain her heart protested the goodness of De la Forêt and high uprightness of the Queen; the persistent suggestions of the dark earl worked upon her mind in spite of all. Why had the Queen forbidden her to meet Michel, or write to him, or to receive letters from him? Why had the Queen, who had spoken such gratitude, deserted her. And now even the Duke’s Daughter wrote to her no more, sent her no more messages. She felt herself a prisoner, and that the Queen had forgotten her debt. She took to wandering to that part of the palace grounds where she could see the windows of the tower her lover inhabited. Her old habit of cheerful talk deserted her, and she brooded. It was long before she heard of the duel between the seigneur and Lord Leicester--the Duke’s Daughter had kept this from her, lest she should be unduly troubled--and when, in anxiety, she went to the house where Lemprière had been quartered, he had gone, none could tell her whither. Buonespoir was now in close confinement, by secret orders of Leicester, and not allowed to walk abroad, and thus, with no friend save her father, now so much under the influence of the earl, she was bitterly solitary. Bravely she fought the growing care and suspicion in her heart; but she was being tried beyond her strength. Her father had urged her to make personal appeal to the Queen; and at times, despite her better judgment, she was on the verge of doing so. Yet what could she say? She could not go to the Queen of England and cry out, like a silly milkmaid, “You have taken my lover--give him back to me!” What proof had she that the Queen wanted her lover? And if she spoke, the impertinence of the suggestion might send back to the fierce Medici that same lover, to lose his head.