Notwithstanding these altercations, Mademoiselle de Montpensier did not leave the Court. She was gracious to all who approached. She looked happy, even radiant. Lauzun, also, after a short absence, resumed his service about the King's person. He was sleek, prosperous, and more haughty than ever. All this was very strange. That vindictive beauty, Madame de Montespan, could not understand it. Her vengeance after all had failed. The matter must be looked into. Spies were immediately set. Every means of inquiry the State could command was brought to bear on Lauzun and the Princess. Their secret was soon discovered. _They were married!_ Madame de Montespan rushed to the King, and announced the tremendous fact. Lauzun was instantly arrested, and imprisoned at Pignerol. Mademoiselle, plunged in the depths of despair, left the Court for her Château of Eu, on the coast of Normandy. CHAPTER XXVIII. THE ROYAL GOVERNESS. It was the King's habit, when at Saint-Germain, to hear early mass in the chapel. On his return, he passed through the great gallery in which the Court was assembled, to make their morning salutations to him. There he also received the petitions of all who had sufficient interest to gain admittance. A woman, tall, finely formed, and of ample proportions, with a stealthy glance out of magnificent black eyes, a well-curved mouth, and a composed and dignified bearing,—quite a style to suit the royal taste,—with a black silk scarf edged with lace thrown over her head, and wearing a dress of common materials, but skilfully designed to set off her rounded figure to the best advantage, presented herself before him. In her hand she held a petition, at the top of which, in large letters, was written: "The Widow Scarron most humbly prays his Majesty to grant——" Louis read no more; his eye was gratified by the petitioner, not by the petition, which he put into his pocket and forgot. But the lady appeared so often, standing in the same place in the gallery of Saint-Germain, that his Majesty grew weary of her sight. At length he turned his back upon her. Françoise d'Aubigné, of the Protestant family of that name, had married in her youth the poet Scarron—a dwarf, deformed and bedridden, a lover of loose company, and a writer of looser songs—for her bread. Scarron drew up the marriage contract without the assistance of a notary. The dower of Françoise was as follows. Four pounds a year, two large black eyes, a fine bust, well-shaped hands, and a great deal of _esprit_. Scarron covenanted to contribute the hump upon his back, plenty of brains, and a pension granted to him by the Queen-Regent, Anne of Austria, as _le malade de le Reine_. He regretted he could not offer either hands or feet, both being paralysed. But he can assure his _fiancée_ of a dower which she will gladly accept—_Immortality_: a prediction made in derision, which was strangely justified by events.