The excitement of conversation had brought a colour to her cheek. Now, when she ceased, it faded away, leaving her perhaps none the less beautiful, that she was a little pale and seemed tired. He observed the change of course. Not an inflection of her voice, not a quiver of an eyelash, not one of those silken hairs out of place on her soft forehead, could have escaped his notice. “Was she unhappy?” he thought; “was she, too, dissatisfied with her lot? Had she failed to reach that resting-place of the heart which is sought for eagerly by so many, and found but by so few?” It pained him; yes, he was glad to feel that it pained him to think this possible. Yet would he have been better pleased to learn that her languor of manner, her pale weariness of brow, were only the effects of her morning’s disappointment, when she waited in vain for the company of her husband? But such an under-current of reflection in no way affected the tide of his conversation; nor had he forgotten the primary cause of his journey, the especial object for which he was now sitting at Sir George Hamilton’s table. “I cannot pretend,” said he, “to be so well informed on political matters as Madame la Marquise. I can only tell you the news of all the world—the gossip that people talk in the streets. The Regent is unpopular, and grows more so day by day. His excesses have at last disgusted the good _bourgeoisie_ of the capital; and these honest citizens, who think only of selling spices over a counter, will, as you know, endure a good deal before they venture to complain of a prince who throws money about with both hands. As the young King grows older, they are more encouraged to cry out; and in Paris, as in Persia, they tell me, it is now the fashion to worship the rising sun. Of course France will follow suit; but we are quiet people at St. Omer; and I do not think our peasantry in Artois have yet realised the death of Louis Quatorze. When Jean Baptiste is thoroughly satisfied on that point, he will, of course, throw up his red cap, and shout, “Vive Louis Quinze!” Till then the Regency assumes all the indistinct terrors of the Unknown. Seriously, I believe the Duke’s day is over, and that the way to Court favour lies through Villeroy’s orderly-room into the apartment of the young King!” “And the Musketeers?” asked Sir George, eagerly. “That must be all in their favour. They have stood so firm by the Marshal and the _real_ throne, their privileges will now surely be respected and increased.” “On the contrary,” replied Florian, “the Musketeers are in disgrace. The grey company was actually warned to leave Paris for Marly, although neither the King nor the Regent were to be there in person. At the last moment the order was revoked, or there must have been a mutiny. As it was, they refused to parade on the Duke’s birthday, and were only brought to reason by Bras-de-Fer, who made them a speech as long as that interminable sword he wears at his belt.”