"Not at all, my friend," grinned Brantome; "you do yourself injustice. The man who quarrels with madame has unequalled claims. You have no rival. _Au revoir_!" And, chuckling to himself, the little abbe went on, leaving Le Brusquet biting his lip. Brantome stopped the next person he met to tell him of the passage-at-arms, and turning the walk we found ourselves in front of the Ladies' Terrace. Somewhat apart from the gay groups that crowded together in the centre of the Terrace was a solitary figure standing near the pedestal of a bronze satyr, cast for the late King by Messer Benvenuto the Florentine. It was mademoiselle herself, and with a word to Le Brusquet I left him and walked straight up to her. "I was wondering to myself if I should see you here," she said as she greeted me. "And I came specially to see you, so that Fate has been kind for once." She smiled, and was about to make some answer, when there was a burst of laughter and the sound of many voices, and turning we saw Diane de Poitiers on the stairway leading down to the Terrace, surrounded, as usual, by a heedless and ever-laughing crowd. She stood for a moment, her Court around her, whilst the people on the other parts of the Terrace broke up their talk and came towards us. Then La Valentinois, who was robed in crimson, began to descend the marble steps slowly, and as she reached the Terrace all those assembled there bowed to her as though she were the Queen. All except myself and mademoiselle, who stood plucking at the ivy leaves on the pedestal of the statue beside her, apparently unconscious of La Valentinois' presence. Whether the Duchess noticed me or not I do not know, but I saw her eyes fixed on mademoiselle, and she stopped full, about two paces from her. Mademoiselle, however, maintained her attitude of total unconcern; but after a moment she looked up and the glances of the two crossed each other. Mademoiselle stared past the favourite as though she did not see her, and Diane's face became like ivory, and her dark eyes frosted with an icy hate--a hate cold and pitiless as everlasting snow. All eyes were fixed on them now, and there was a dead silence as the two--the woman and the girl--faced each other. But it was mademoiselle who was winning. Far away as her look was there was that in it that brought the colour back to Diane's cheeks, to make it go again. Her bosom rose and fell, she played nervously with her fan, and at last she spoke, with a voice that shook in spite of her efforts to restrain it: "I hear, mademoiselle, that you do not find the Court to your liking." And the reply was a simple bow. The Duchess was all red and white now. The insult was open and patent; but worse was to follow, for she made a mistake, and went on, with a sneer: "It is a pity they do not care more for the education of girls in Poitou; but I think you are right, mademoiselle. The Court is not suited to you. You should take the veil and the black robe."