Louis took his stand at a sideboard that stood between two of the open windows, and from whence he served coffee, tea, or chocolate. Madame had enough to do to watch her host. She engaged him in conversation, hoping to be able to measure the extent of his insanity, and to find out whether, and how best, she could wrest from his aged hands the control of his own property: first, whether she could not do it without having _recourse_ to law; secondly, whether she could do it even _through_ law. Of the first there was little hope; the old man’s mind upon every subject but the one, acted with a vigor, clearness, and directness that proved him to be a very unlikely subject for even the most artful woman’s government; of the second there was no certainty, for, though upon one idea he was undoubtedly mad, yet, upon the first suspicion of her purpose to subject him to a medical or a judicial examination, he would assuredly have the cunning to conceal his madness—a measure in which he would be supported by his two educated slaves, Louis and Madeleine, who, for whatever reason, were certainly flatterers of his mania. However, Madame was not a woman rashly to resign a purpose, or grow hopeless of its accomplishment. And all this time, while her head was busily brewing plots, the old man, the purposed victim of her machinations, was loading her with compliments and attentions. When breakfast was over, Madame set herself to arrange her own personal attendance. Madeleine was retained as her maid. And a pretty mulatto girl named Coralie, the younger sister of Madeleine, was appointed nurse to the “Princess Etoile.” Frivole, the boy brother of those girls was brought from the garden into the house as page and messenger. And Madame’s establishment was complete. The next day was the Sabbath. Madame was a devout Roman Catholic, and a scrupulous attendant upon mass. Here was a difficulty not thought of before. Where and how should she attend mass? She early rang her bell. Her maid answered the summons. “Madeleine, how far are we from the main land?” “About fifty miles.” “Very good. How far is the nearest Catholic chapel from this?” “St. Inigoes, the nearest, Madame, is fifty miles.” “Better! Madeleine, my brother-in-law, your master, his Majesty the King of the Isles, when he was simply Monsieur Henri, used to be a good Catholic.” “And he is so still, Madame.” “But good Catholics are under obligations to hear mass once every Sunday.” “Yes, Madame.” “‘Yes, Madame.’ It is very well to say, ‘Yes, Madame,’ but how upon earth do you reconcile the neglect of that duty on the part of your master with your declaration that he is still a good Catholic?” “But Madame will pardon me. She hastens to conclusions. My master does not neglect his Christian duties.” “Then I should be glad to know how he performs them. You do not mean to say that he goes fifty miles to hear mass at St. Inigoes?” “No, Madame.” “How then?”