“You are standing all this time,” he said abruptly when he had finished, “and it grows cold here. Shall we talk a moment by the fire? I must not stay long.” The girl moved away at once. A little shiver had indeed gone over her, and she had quite lost the colour of a few moments ago, and more besides. “You are going to the King, perhaps?” she hazarded over her shoulder as he followed her to the fireplace. “No; to Bertrand-Moleville, if I can find him. I hardly saw a soul as I came up. Where is everybody—where is Madame de Fontenelle—and why are you alone? It is very rare to find you so!” “The Princess is in her oratory, and will probably be there for some time. Madame de Fontenelle, poor old thing, has a bad _migraine_, and I think that Madame de Lessay, who is in waiting to-day, is receiving her brother.” “I see. And what is your news from Chantemerle?” “Nothing in particular,” replied the girl. The ruddy light from the fire smote upwards on her beautiful, dreamy face. “The Marquise is well, and Gilbert is building some new cottages. He writes that—that——” “That he would rather you did not stay here much longer,” finished the young man, looking hard at her. “Yes,” assented the girl indistinctly, dropping her head. “He is perfectly right,” said Gilbert’s cousin. “Sooner or later you will have to leave the Court. The Princess Elisabeth, too, will insist.” His tone was almost hard, and she looked up with a dawn of surprise. “Oh, not yet, Louis! There is no danger; no one would harm the Princess. Surely you do not think I need go yet?” “You should not ask me,” answered the young man slowly in a low voice. He seemed to pick his words from a host of others ready on his lips, looking on the ground the while. “I have no—no right to advise you, and . . . and . . . Lucienne!” The name burst from him on a cry, for they had both looked up, and with the meeting of their eyes all pretence was over between them. The next instant she was in his arms, and her lips met his, while all the little stucco Cupids round the cornice smiled down, in the half-dusk and the firelight, at the foolish mortals who had resolved that they would never betray their hearts to each other. “Lucienne, my love, my love!” murmured the young man passionately. “Oh, I never thought . . . I never meant to tell you. . . . Shut your eyes, and let me kiss them . . . your hair smells of violets. . . .” “Louis, Louis!” said the girl, trying, after a moment, to free herself, “what are we doing?—Oh, what are we doing?” “What we were always meant to do, my heart,” said he hardily. “No, I shall not let you go. I will never let you go again, little love. But we will both leave France—and in England——” “Louis, Louis, don’t break my heart! You know we can’t!” And, abandoning her attempt at loosing herself, and clinging all the closer, she broke into pitiful sobbing.