The Abbé’s eyes sparkled. “I _know_ I can!” said he. “My cousin has none of the weaknesses of her sex, and all its beauty for her own share.” Then he opened the door and spoke loud enough for Célandine to hear. “We must have mademoiselle back from her pension. She is old enough now to take her place as an ornament to society and the Court.” Malletort understood true economy, and he knew that this bribe, while it cost him nothing, would purchase favour with the quadroon, whose dislike he had observed and resolved to efface. Madame de Montmirail bowed and took his arm. It was now high time they were both in attendance on his Majesty, should the concert fixed for that night be permitted to take place. As they walked through the corridor, however, a great confusion was heard in the gallery they were about to enter. There was a scuffling of feet, a murmur of agitated voices suppressed to whispers, and the smothered sobs of women, denoting some sad catastrophe. When the door opened, the musicians crowded hurriedly out, carrying with them their instruments, and tumultuously impeding the progress of a spare grave man in a priest’s dress, who pushed his way through, with every appearance of anxiety and dismay. It was Père Tellier, the king’s confessor, summoned in mortal haste to the bedside of his dying master. The Marquise and the Abbé had that day looked their last upon the face of _Louis le Grand_. Already, through pale attendants and anxious courtiers, through valets and chamberlains and musketeers of the guard, might be seen approaching the real Usher of the Black Rod. CHAPTER VI A JESUIT’S TASK Of all armies on earth, there is none with a discipline so perfect as exists in the ranks of the Jesuits. No similar brotherhood embraces so extensive a scheme; no society spreads its ramifications so wide and deep. The soldier who enlists under that black banner abandons at once and for ever his own affections, his own opinions, his own responsibilities; nay, his very identity becomes fused in the general organisation of his order. Florian de St. Croix, with his warm, impulsive disposition, his tendency to self-sacrifice, and his romantic temperament, had better have hanged round his neck any other millstone than this. As he walked rapidly down a long perspective of paved road, between two lofty rows of poplars, his head bent low, his hands clenched, his lips muttering, and his swift unequal strides denoting both impetuosity and agitation, he seemed strangely and sadly altered from the bright enthusiastic youth who sat with Abbé Malletort under the limes at Versailles.