Suddenly the door opened, and Madame de Montespan appeared. After saluting La Vallière, she seated herself in an easy-chair opposite to her. Her bearing was greatly changed. No longer subservient and flattering, she was now confident, familiar, and domineering. Her eyes wandered round the room with a defiant expression. The very tone of her voice showed how much she assumed upon the consciousness of favour. She was more beautiful than ever; many jewels adorned her neck and hair which she had never worn before. "Louise," said she, with an air which, if intended to be gracious, was only patronising, "I can only stay for an instant. How dismal you look! what is the matter?" Louise shook her head despondingly. "Nothing more than usual." "The Queen is just arrived from Saint-Germain; I am in attendance. I escaped for a few minutes, accompanied by the Comte de Lauzun. We came through the gardens and the thicket by the private alley. You must not ask me to stay; her Majesty may inquire for me. Lauzun is waiting outside on the terrace by the new fountain." "Will he not come in?" asked La Vallière. "No, he is in attendance on his Majesty, who is engaged at this moment with the architect. He may call for him at any moment." "Do you think I shall see his Majesty this evening?" asked La Vallière timidly, looking up and meeting the haughty stare of the Marquise. "I imagine not. It is late, and his Majesty has said nothing of such an intention." "Yet he is so near," murmured Louise sadly. "Monsieur de Lauzun tells me that the flotilla of boats is ordered for this evening. There is to be a water party on the canal; the shores are to be illuminated. I trust it will not rain." "How I envy you—not the water party, but that you will see the King," and La Vallière's eyes glistened. "Adieu, adieu, _ma belle_! I can't keep Lauzun waiting," and Madame de Montespan rose and left the boudoir as hastily as she had entered it. Louise had also risen to attend her to the door. She did not reseat herself, but stood gazing wistfully after her. She anxiously bent her ear to catch every sound. Louis was close at hand; he might still come. A thrill of joy shot through her at the thought. Once the sound of footsteps was audible, and a flush of delight overspread her face. The sound died away, and again the night wind, sighing without, alone broke the silence. Her heart sank within her. She rebuked herself, but in vain; spite of remorse, spite of self-conflicts, Louis was dearer to her than life. [Illustration: MADAME DE MONTESPAN.]