“A woman can have no _friends_,” she proceeded, speaking in a low tone that the music rendered inaudible to all but her companion. “How I wish she could! I know the sort of one I should choose—brave, steadfast, constant, self-controlled; a gallant soldier, a loyal gentleman; above all, a man uninfluenced by every eye that flashes, every lip that smiles. And yet—and yet,” she added, while her soft voice sank to a whisper as the music rose and swelled, “such an one would soon cease to be a friend. Because—because―” “Because why?” he asked, bending tenderly over her, for it was not in man’s nature to remain uninfluenced by such words now spoken. The dark eyes flashed through their mask, and the hand that rested on his arm clenched tight while she replied— “Because I should love him foolishly, madly, if he cared for me; and if not—I should hate him so fiercely that―” “You come with me from here!” said a loud good-humoured voice at this interesting juncture, while a man’s hand was laid familiarly on the Musketeer’s shoulder. “In a quarter of an hour my coach will be waiting at the stage entrance. Not one of my _roués_ dare face it! I want a fellow like you, who fears neither man nor devil!” Captain George bowed low, with the mask, still leaning on his arm curtsied to the ground. “Highness,” said he, “I shall have the honour! It is a mere duty to serve under his orders but it becomes _a pleasure_ when Monsieur le Duc commands in person.” “And to supper afterwards, of course,” added very graciously a lady who was hanging on the Regent’s arm, and who carried her mask in her hand. “Captain George is always welcome, as he knows, and we shall not be more than a half-a-dozen at the outside.” Again the Musketeer bowed low, and the Marquise, scanning the last speaker intently, could not but acknowledge that to-night Madame de Parabére looked more than usually beautiful. The _brunette_, too, probably overrated the charms of the _blonde_, the exceeding delicacy of complexion, the softness of skin, and the innocent baby face which so fascinated the Regent. Also she thought she detected on that baby face a decided preference for the Musketeer, and Madame de Montmirail was not a woman to entertain the strongest passions of her sex and leave out jealousy. Had it not been for these suspicions, the bouquet of stephanotis might have remained all night innocuous beneath her cloak, to be consumed in the stove that warmed her chocolate when she got home. But the Marquise allowed no one to cross her designs with impunity, and watching her new enemy narrowly, began to handle her weapons and prepare for action.