"Well, well, so be it," replied Mayenne. "But now, I think of it, my sister, the Duchess of Montpensier--that lady, who was here just now," he added, "will bring you with her in her coach. It will hold ten with ease, and she has but four ladies with her. Wait here, and I will tell some of the attendants to let you know when she comes down." The priest bowed his head, and Mayenne departing, left a message for his sister, and rode back to the Hotel do Guise. Not long after the carriage of Madame de Montpensier rolled into the court, and the Duchess instantly sought her brother's cabinet. "One of your grooms told me, Charles," she said, "that I was to bring the priest with me." "Certainly," replied the Duke. "Have you not done so?" "No," she answered, "I have not, because I could not find him. We sought everywhere, in the chapel and the sacristy, and over all the lower part of the house; but he had evidently gone away, and left the door of the chapel open behind him." "The foolish man has mistaken me, then," said Mayenne; "but it matters not. He will not be long in finding me out, for he has not got his reward for either of the two services he has rendered to-night; and if I may judge by his face, he is not a man to perform either the one or the other for the love of God. So we shall hear of him ere half an hour be over, depend upon it." And he turned the conversation to the distressing scene in which he had so unwillingly played a part. In regard to the priest, however, Mayenne was mistaken. The night passed over without his appearance; and the following morning, as the Duke was making inquiries concerning him, he was interrupted by news of a different nature, in regard to which we must give some previous explanation. CHAPTER XXIII. When Eugenie de Menancourt, slowly and painfully, returned to consciousness of life and sorrow, she found herself in the saloon in which she usually sat, and in the arms of her own women. Gazing fearfully around, she sought to discover where the forms of those who so lately surrounded her were now concealed; and as she satisfied herself that there was no one present but her own attendants, her bewildered imagination almost led her to hope, that the terrible scenes she had gone through were nothing but the phantasms of some horrible dream. Gradually, however, memory recalled every circumstance with too painful a degree of accuracy to admit of her indulging any longer in such a happy delusion; and now, unrestrained by the presence of any but those whom she knew and loved, she gave way to all the bitter sorrow that swelled her heart, and burst into a long and silent flood of tears. The tears seemed to relieve her; but the words which one of her young attendants whispered in her ear tended more than all to afford consolation, and to revive almost extinguished hope. "Do not weep so bitterly, lady, do not weep so bitterly," said the girl. "He is gone, and may not return for months!"