“Guide it, eh? Well, monsieur, there is a queen of France.” “I know it, madame; that is how it happened that I found myself _here_ this morning.” The marquise was more than accustomed to such compliments, though they were generally made in a whisper; but, in the present circumstances, this appeared to be quite singularly gratifying to her. “And on what faith,” said she, “on what assurance, did you believe yourself able to penetrate as far as this? For you did not count, I suppose, upon a horse’s falling on the way.” “Madame, I believed--I hoped--” “What did you hope?” “I hoped that chance--might make--” “Chance again! Chance is apparently one of your friends; but I warn you that if you have no other, it is a sad recommendation.” Perhaps offended Chance wished to avenge herself for this irreverence, for the chevalier, whom these few questions had more and more troubled, suddenly perceived, on the corner of the table, the identical fan that he had picked up the night before. He took it, and, as on the night before, presented it to the marquise, bending the knee before her. “Here, madame,” he said to her, “is the only friend that could plead for me--” The marquise seemed at first astonished, and hesitated a moment, looking now at the fan, now at the chevalier. “Ah! you are right,” she said at last, “it is you, monsieur! I recognize you. It is you whom I saw yesterday, after the play, as I went by with M. de Richelieu. I let my fan drop, and you ‘found yourself there,’ as you were saying.” “Yes, madame.” “And very gallantly, as a true chevalier, you returned it to me. I did not thank you, but I was sure, all the same, that he who knows how to pick up a fan with such grace would also know, at the right time, how to pick up the glove. And we are not ill-pleased at that, we women.” “And it is but too true, madame; for, on reaching here just now, I almost had a duel with the gatekeeper.” “Mercy on us!” said the marquise, once more seized with a fit of gaiety. “With the gatekeeper! And what about?” “He would not let me come in.” “That would have been a pity! But who are you, monsieur? And what is your request?” “Madame, I am called the Chevalier de Vauvert. M. de Biron had asked in my behalf for a cornetcy in the Guards.” “Oh! I remember now. You come from Neauflette; you are in love with Mademoiselle d’Annebault--” “Madame, who could have told you?” “Oh! I warn you that I am much to be feared. When memory fails me, I guess. You are a relative of the Abbé de Chauvelin, and were refused on that account; is not that so? Where is your petition?” “Here it is, madame; but indeed I can not understand--” “Why need you understand? Rise and lay your paper on the table. I am going to answer the King’s letter; you will take him, at the same time, your request and my letter.” “But, madame, I thought I had mentioned to you--”