'Indeed!' Madame's face, with its soft though clear outlines, was half turned from me as she spoke. 'I suppose, then, you do not care for her--a man never thinks with a woman in the matter of beauty. But I did think you would admire Mademoiselle.' 'Why should I, even supposing she was beautiful? To my mind there are two kinds of beauty.' And here I was interrupted by the sound of cheering from the Petite Galerie, and the sudden hush that fell on the room. As we moved down to see for whom the crush was parting on either side, we discovered that it was the Marshal himself, and close at his heels were Lafin, with his sinister smile, and a dozen gentlemen, amongst whom I observed the grim figure of Adam de Gomeron. Madame saw the free-lance, too, and then turned her eyes to mine. She read the unspoken question in my look, her eyes met mine, and through her half-parted lips a low whisper came to me--'Never--never.' 'They are coming straight towards us,' I said, 'we will stand here and let them pass,' and with her fingers still resting on my arm we moved a pace or so aside. As Biron came up there was almost a shout of welcome, and he bowed to the right and left of him as though he were the King himself. He was then the foremost subject in France, and in the heyday of his strength and power. In person he was of middle height, but carried himself with unexampled grace and dignity of manner. His short beard was cut to a peak, and from beneath his straight eyebrows, his keen and deep-set eyes, those eyes which Marie de Medici said hall-marked him for a traitor, _avec ses yeux noirs enfonces_, seemed to turn their searchlights here, there, and everywhere at once. His dress, like all about the man, was full of display. He wore a suit of grey satin, a short black velvet cloak held by a splendid emerald and diamond clasp, and carried a hat plumed with white and black feathers. His sword hilt and the buckles on his shoes flashed with gems. As he came onwards, making straight for the door of the cabinet, Coiffier stepped out of the crowd and held him lightly by his cloak. The Marshal turned on him sharply: 'Let me go, I have no time for mummeries.' 'Very well, my lord, only I should advise Monseigneur never again to wear a suit such as he is attired in at present.' Biron stopped, and we all gathered closer. 'Why, Coiffier?' he asked, in a tone of affected gaiety, but with a nervous manner. 'Because, monseigneur, I dreamed that I saw you early one morning standing, dressed as you are just now, by the block in the yard of the Bastille.' One or two of the women almost shrieked, and a murmur went up from those who heard the words. As for the Marshal, his face grew pale and then flushed darkly. 'You are mad, my friend,' he said hoarsely, and then, with his head down, went straight to the door of the cabinet. It seemed to open of its own accord as he came up to it, and, leaving his suite behind, he passed in to the King.