She need not have been in so much haste, for the old man coming up the avenue, walked but slowly. He seemed to enjoy the sunshine of that pleasant day, and lingered in it as an idle old man might, to whom a degree of weariness was to be endured every day of his life. Still, if he walked slowly, it was with a jaunty affectation of youth, which his costume and singularly handsome features carried out with some appearance of truth. As the sun shone down upon his coat of plum-colored velvet, with all its rich bordering of embroidery—on the little hat, surmounting a peruke of flowing brown hair, and the soft, mist-like lace fluttering at his wrists and bosom, the picture was far more youthful than it would have appeared at a closer view, or with less elaborate appointments. As he walked daintily forward in his high-heeled shoes, on which the diamond-buckles shot out a tiny flame with each lift of the foot, the old monarch—for this man was Louis the Fifteenth—saw the flutter of a rose-colored dress at one of the palace windows, and paused long enough to kiss his hand. “Thank heaven, he is in excellent humor!” exclaimed the countess, moving restlessly around the room, and hiding the parchment Dr. Gosner had made his calculations on beneath a cushion. “This will make my task easy.” She was right; the old monarch was in high spirits that day. Like a school-boy, he had escaped from the etiquette of Versailles, and sought an hour of relaxation in the pretty palace which, from its very proportions, gave some idea of a home. The countess stood near the door of her saloon, waiting to receive him, her eyes sparkling and her cheeks flushed with the wine she had been drinking. The nervous shock she experienced, subsided into what seemed a pleasant excitement. The king came in a little tired from his long walk, and breathing quickly. There was no ceremony in his reception. The woman knew well enough that half the charm of that place lay in an entire want of formality. She wheeled a chair near the window, placed a gilded footstool for the old man’s feet, when he sat down, and settling herself on the floor close by it, began to chat with the careless grace of a spoiled child. It was not till just as he was going away in high good-humor, that she ventured on the object that had all the time been uppermost in her mind. “One minute—do not go quite yet, my friend; I have a little favor to ask.” “Oh! that is why you have insisted on keeping at my feet,” laughed the old man. “One must pay for an hour like this. Well, well, if the price is not heavy, we will consider it.” The countess went to a table, and brought back a small portfolio, which she opened upon one knee, sinking the other gently to the floor. “Only a little signature—just one.” She held out a paper, on which some lines had been hastily written by her own hand. The king took it with a little hesitation, and holding it a long way from his eyes, read the contents.