Mademoiselle D'Orfeuil de Narbonne! What a fool I had been in my condescension. How she must have laughed as she played her part from day to day; laughed at my simplicity in swallowing her mock humility, laughed at my clownish setting her at her ease, she who miscalled herself, lest Gaspard Hellewyl, the broken-fortuned country lout of Flanders, should be overawed by her greatness! Who is there has not been wise after the event when he might have been wise before? And who is there has not cursed the puppy-blindness in him that could not see what was plain before his face? Not a day had passed but the gilding of the Narbonne had shone through the homespun of the Orfeuil, and yet the glint taught me nothing. But it might have been worse. I might have spoken more boldly, more openly, and so have given myself more frankly to her laughter. I owed her some thanks that I had not, for even my bitter heart set this to her credit, that she had never beckoned me to a fall. Her jest had not been that cruellest of jests that spoils a life for a pastime. Yes, it might have been worse, though that is cold comfort when might have been worse is elbow-neighbour to as bad as can be, and there was a kind of grim satisfaction in the knowledge that Louis would soon give me other things to think of. Never, by day or night, was Morsigny left unsentinelled, and Mademoiselle, being warned of our coming, met us at the gate. "Welcome home, _mon coeur_!" she said, having dropped, and for the last time, her little curtsey. "Hast thou had a good day? How red thy cheeks are! Monsieur Gaspard must have--oh! Monsieur, Monsieur, is the news bad? Is there to be no peace for Navarre that you are so grave? What has happened, Monsieur? Tell me, tell me!" "Much, Mademoiselle de Narbonne, but not what you think." "Thank God for that! And Narbonne! Ah," and frank laughter chased away the sudden seriousness. "But you are not angry at my poor little pretence? You should not be, for it was you who taught it to me. Remember how I took you for Martin." "Mademoiselle, if I have deceived myself, I have deceived you also." "What?" and she looked me imperiously in the eyes, "are you, after all, Martin the servant, and is the other the Gaspard Hellewyl Monsieur de Commines called friend? If that is your meaning----" "No, no; worse than that, much worse. I am, most unhappily, that Gaspard Hellewyl, and so it is much worse than that." As may be supposed, the grooms had led away the horses, and we four were alone, the little Count being clasped in her arms. Before she could reply, Brother Paulus intervened. "Run to thy Marie, Gaston, _mon gars_; she will give thee thy bread and milk for to-night." "Yes," said Mademoiselle, kissing him, and letting him slip to the ground. "Run away, _p'tit_, I shall come to thee presently."