"Not from me," answered Edward Langdale; "for I suspected them from the first." "Ah! then you have learned to suspect betimes," said the duchess; "and I dare say you suspect women as much as men,--though we are more sincere by half. I say not we are more faithful, for men are so unfaithful that we should lose at that game; but we show more openly what we feel, and therefore are more true. Now, tell me: were you ever in love, Monsieur Langdale?" Thus she rambled on, with less gayety, and less familiarity, perhaps, than before dinner; but there was a sort of languor about her, a soft sleepiness, which was perhaps more attractive, especially to a young man. One of the greatest charms of that extraordinary woman was her infinite variety. Was it now a desire merely to coquet with a young and handsome lad? Was it only with the purpose of amusing a vacant hour or two? Was it without purpose at all, and that she simply gave way to the passing feelings of the moment and with listless carelessness left the results to chance? I know not; and probably she herself and Edward Langdale were the only persons who ever knew. Authors will get into difficulties sometimes, dear reader,--will come to sticking-places where they find it as difficult to go back as to wade through. The only way in such circumstances is to take a great jump; and, thank Heaven, the horses we ride are equal to any leap. The next morning Edward and the duchess and her daughter met at breakfast; and Madame de Chevreuse, if not in great spirits, was cheerful and gay, and full of plans for passing the day pleasantly. She would go and show the young Englishman the grotto and the rocks; they would kill a stag in the adjoining forest; they would visit the _curé_ of Chevreuse, and astonish the good man,--a sport which she by no means disliked: but while they were arranging all these schemes on the open space before the chateau, a courier was seen riding up from the gates, and when he came near he handed the duchess two letters. The blood left her cheek as she read, and, instantly drawing Edward aside, she said, "We must part at once. You go on as fast as possible to Gray. Wait there two days, and, if you hear no more, ride forward to Turin. As for myself, look here." And she put a paper into his hand. It was a copy of the decree banishing her to Lorraine, there to remain upon her own estates till the king's further pleasure. "Order your horses quickly," she said. "Then come to my chamber for the sum Montagu left for you. Glimpses of sunshine! glimpses of sunshine in this April-day life! and then dark clouds and heavy showers." In an hour, Edward Langdale rode away from Dampierre. He was grave and silent. What was in his heart who can tell? but he certainly did not view the world more brightly, or feel more confidence in human nature, than he had done before that short visit. CHAPTER XXVI.