On the Count de Morseiul the King's words had produced a different, but not a less powerful effect. The surprise and joy which he might have felt at finding himself suddenly pointed out by the monarch as the favoured suitor for the hand of her he loved, was well nigh done away by the conviction that the price the King put upon his ultimate approbation of their union was such as he could not pay. But nevertheless those words were most joyful, though they raised up some feeling of self-reproach in his heart. It was evident that the tale told by Pelisson regarding the Chevalier was false, or perhaps, indeed, originated in some pious fraud devised for the purpose of driving him more speedily to acknowledge himself a convert to the church of Rome. Whatever were the circumstances, however, it was clear that Clémence was herself unconscious of any such report, and that all the probabilities which imagination had built up to torment him were but idle dreams. He had pained himself enough indeed; but he had pained Clémence also, and his first wish was to offer her any atonement in his power. Such were the feelings and thoughts called up in the bosom of the young Count by the events which had just occurred. But the surprise of Clémence and her lover was far outdone by that of the Duke and Duchess de Rouvré, who, astonished at the favour into which their young friend seemed so suddenly to have risen, and equally astonished at the intimation given by the King of an attachment existing between the Count and Clémence, overflowed with joy and satisfaction as soon as the monarch left the spot, and expressed many a vain hope that, after all, the affairs which had commenced in darkness and shadow, would end in sunshine and light. Ere the Count could reply, or say one word to Clémence de Marly, the _bransle_ began, and he led her forth to dance. There was but a moment for him to speak to her; but he did not lose that moment. "Clémence," he said, as he led her forward, "I fear I have both pained you and wronged you." A bright and beautiful smile spread at once over her countenance. "You have," she said; "but those words are enough, Albeit! Say no more! the pain is done away; the wrong is forgotten." "It is not forgotten by me, sweet girl," he replied, in the same low tone; "but I must speak to you long, and explain all." "Come to-morrow," she answered; "all difficulties must now be done away. I, too, have something to explain, Albert," she added, "but yet not every thing that I could wish to explain, and about that I will make you my only reproach. You promised not to doubt me--oh, keep that promise!"