"Madam," said Celia, summoning all her courage, "I wish your Ladyship would allow me to remain at home." "Is this wicked, my votaress?" asked Lady Ingram, with the scornful smile which by this time her step-daughter knew so well. "I cannot say that, Madam; but I am not quite sure that it is right. Does your Ladyship wish me particularly to accompany you?" "Of course I do, my clear. 'Tis an opportunity which it would be a sin to lose. You consider it a venial sin, I suppose. Well, you can say another prayer or two." "I know nothing about venial sins, Madam. Sin is sin to me; but as I am not sure that this is a sin, if your Ladyship absolutely commands me, I will go: at the same time, I would much rather remain." "Ah! I know what that means, my _réligieuse_," said Lady Ingram, laughing; "you want an excuse for your conscience. Very well, then, I command you. The coach is here. Come!" Celia followed slowly. Lady Ingram had entirely misunderstood her--in all probability was incapable of understanding her. Any further explanation, she felt, would merely plunge her deeper into the mire; so she sat grave and silent until the carriage drew up on one side of the Place du Carrousel. Lady Ingram gave her hand as usual to Philip, and Celia followed them in silence. After the customary passage through suites of rooms, they paused at a door; and on giving a gentle tap, a gentleman in black came out and bowed low before them. "Madam," said he, "my duty is my duty. I regret unspeakably to be constrained to inform you that His Most Christian Majesty can receive no person to-day." "I regret it exceedingly also," answered Lady Ingram. "I can proceed, I suppose, to visit the ladies?" "Certainly, Madam." Lady Ingram turned off through further suites of apartments, and the gentleman in black, straightening himself up, disappeared again behind the door. Celia felt relieved. There could be nothing wrong, she thought, in paying respect to the Queen and Princesses, to whom she supposed Lady Ingram to refer; and she followed with a lighter step and heart than before. Her ignorance of the state of the Royal Family of France was very great indeed. That state, in the summer of 1712, was a strange and lamentable one. There was no Queen, yet the King was married; there were no Princesses save one, the Duchess de Berry, yet three of the King's daughters sat round his table every evening. "Now, Celia!" said Lady Ingram, looking back, "we will pay our respects first to the Duchess de Berry." "Who is the Duchess de Berry?" Celia inquired softly of Philip. "The wife of the King's grandson," he whispered in reply.