She resolved to alter her frivolous, pleasure-loving useless life; she appointed the Bishop her confessor, and made, it may be, some little progress on another path to that which she had followed so far. His grace of Condom called her a virtuous princess, and, in common with all who knew her, loved her for her gaiety, her charm, her sweetness; his one-time reproof had melted into flatteries now: there could be no censure for her who had detached England from The Triple Alliance. Her return from England had been celebrated by a succession of balls, fêtes, masques; she had re-conquered France with her dazzling English beauty, her graceful easy manners, and the brilliant success of her mission. Flushed and roseate from her victory she descended like a goddess into her throne in the most glorious court in Europe; she was the idol of the people too, “the most adorable princess who ever lived,” one of her ladies called her. There seemed no word to express her complex charm. In the midst of her gorgeous triumph Madame was a little grieved, a little stung by the obvious coldness of Monsieur; his jealousy had been the background of her life for the eight years since she had married him. Defying him, she had come more than once very near to giving him cause for open outraged clamour, but her wit, her courage had saved her; it had always ended in Madame laughing at Monsieur. She laughed at Monsieur now; it had become a habit, though, knowing him to be something justified and not being shallow herself, there was a little ache to be hidden beneath her sparkling demeanour, an ache strengthened perhaps by a memory of the Bishop of Condom’s words and a vague desire to follow them. But there was all her life, she thought; now there was no time for anything but gaiety, applause, the sweet incense of adulation. In the court that toasted Mme d’Armagnac, Louise de la Vallière, Madame Valentinois, Madame de Soissons, she was reckoned the most beautiful woman; she believed that the King loved her; in her heart she believed that he, Adonis and Mars among men, loved her, the unattainable. If she had been free–or even perhaps the wife of any other man–she might have been the Queen of France. She had coquetted with many; the splendid de Guiche, the romantic de Vardes, Marsillac and Monsieur le Grand Ecuyer, but–the King— The queen and Monsieur paid her the infinite compliment of being furiously jealous; the d’Armagnacs, the Mancinis, the la Vallières and the lesser beauties spread abroad to dazzle the eyes of majesty were openly overshadowed; Racine wrote for her “Berenice,” and all who saw it performed knew who the heroine stood for–and who was Titus. The past was stormy but glorious, the future vague but golden; she had the praises of Louis and the endearments of Charles in her ears; she had come from England where she had queened it for a period of meteor-like splendour to France, where she was permanently enthroned.