The two young people were one day in the gardens of the Hôtel de St. Pol along with the Comte de Ponthieu,--Charles VII.,--and the Princes and Princesses of Sicily-Anjou, when the Count, wearied of his forced attentions to the Princess Marie, sauntered away by himself. Xaintrailles followed him and remonstrated with him for his coolness to his fiancée. Charles replied that they were not fully betrothed, and that he did not admire and did not love Marie. Xaintrailles told Dunois what the Count had said, and Dunois, with a scornful laugh, exclaimed: “One must be dull and blind indeed not to be smitten by her eyes--the most beautiful eyes in the whole world, and quite incapable of seeing the faults of others.” Dunois was very much in love with the Princess, and did not conceal his passion, so much so that when he kissed her hand, as he often did, he also lifted the hem of her skirt and implanted a kiss there, as a lover’s token of humility. Dunois contrived _têtes-à-tête_ as often as he could with his sweetheart, as he called Marie d’Anjou. One day, it is said, Charles passed down a sheltered path in the gardens, and his companion pointed out to him a couple love-making in a secluded arbour. They chided him with the feebleness of his suit, and told him it would serve him right if Marie married Dunois. He said he did not care a bit if she did or if she did not. They were all mere children--the Count sixteen, Marie fifteen, and Dunois of a like age. The intimacy between the Princess and her lover became embarrassing to the whole Court, but time went on, and developments were awaited by the curious and intriguing. A summer’s day came when some ladies of the Court went wandering about searching for shady shelters. Right away from the palace, near a springing fountain, they came upon a crossing in the path, and there in the sandy dust they read, written by a stick or something: “Destin qui va m’unir d’une éternelle chaîne A l’object de ma haîne-- Cruel destin, arrache de mon cœur Une trop vive ardeur.” “Fate which would rivet me with a perpetual chain To the object of my deep disdain-- O, cruel fate! which would snatch from my poor worn heart A passion full of ardour on my part.”