So I would meet her within the hour. Half unconsciously I glanced down to see if my doublet sat aright and my points were tied. Then I thought I would go back to the house and meet her there, and, as I did this, I looked at the fall of the plumes in my hat, and, finally, laughing at myself for a coxcomb, took my heart in both hands, and marched onwards towards the gates. The porter had already been warned, and on my coming I found him there with a crowd of yokels, all in a state of high excitement. 'It is three years since Madame was here, monsieur,' the honest fellow exclaimed to me as I came up, 'three years, and now she comes without a word of warning--_hola!_ There they are, and there is Madame on the jennet she purchased from M. le duc de Sully--he was but the Sieur de Rosny then--_hola_! _hola!_' The crowd joined with him in his cheers, although as yet the party was far off--not so far, however, that I could not easily make out the graceful figure on the jennet, and in the two riders who accompanied Madame, apart from the half-dozen servants behind, I recognised to my surprise d'Ayen, and guessed that the grey-beard in the tall-crowned, broad-brimmed hat, with the sad-coloured cloak over his shoulders, was no other than the old Huguenot, whose zeal had outrun his discretion on the night when I saved Madame from a great peril. This guess of mine I hazarded aloud to the gate-keeper, who replied: 'Yes, M. le Chevalier, that is Maitre Palin, Madame's chaplain, and he was also chaplain to M. le Compte before he died.' 'When was it that M. le Compte died?' 'Let me see, monsieur--ah, yes--four years ago in Paris, at the time of the Plague. He was a great lord, as you may know, and brother of the duke, who they say has quarrelled with the King because of his conversion, and of Madame Charlotte, the Princess of Conde, who lives in the Rue Grenelle, and whom the King kept for long a close prisoner in the tower of St. Jean d'Angely--no one knows why; but it is buzzed that Monseigneur, the Prince of Conde, the King's cousin, died of a flask of wine, and that the Princess--but _hola_! _hola_! welcome to your own house, madame,' and he dropped on his knees as the cavalcade rode up, and presented the keys of the chateau gates slung on a silver chain to their mistress. She bent from the saddle and touched them with her hand, and the peasantry surrounded her with hearty greeting, hedging her in with cheerful red faces and broad smiles, so that she could not move. Meanwhile, I stood apart, tugging at my moustache, wondering by what right d'Ayen rode at her bridle hand, and feeling how true Marescot's words were, that the bow of ribbon was hung too high for me. Not that it was a question of birth--de Breuil of Auriac was a name that was old when Tremouille was unknown; but--there were other things which made all the difference, and men and women of the world will understand what I mean when I say this.