The word _Whiskers_ still stood its ground, and continued to be made use of in most of the best companies throughout the little kingdom of _Navarre_, notwithstanding the indiscreet use which _La Fosseuse_ had made of it: the truth was, _La Fosseuse_ had pronounced the word, not only before the queen, but upon sundry other occasions at court, with an accent which always implied something of a mystery—And as the court of _Margaret_, as all the world knows, was at that time a mixture of gallantry and devotion——and whiskers being as applicable to the one, as the other, the word naturally stood its ground——it gained full as much as it lost; that is, the clergy were for it——the laity were against it——and for the women,——_they_ were divided. The excellency of the figure and mien of the young Sieur _De Croix_, was at that time beginning to draw the attention of the maids of honour towards the terrace before the palace gate, where the guard was mounted. The lady _De Baussiere_ fell deeply in love with him,——_La Battarelle_ did the same—it was the finest weather for it, that ever was remembered in _Navarre——La Guyol, La Maronette, La Sabatiere_, fell in love with the Sieur _De Croix_ also——_La Rebours_ and _La Fosseuse_ knew better——_De Croix_ had failed in an attempt to recommend himself to _La Rebours;_ and _La Rebours_ and _La Fosseuse_ were inseparable. The queen of _Navarre_ was sitting with her ladies in the painted bow-window, facing the gate of the second court, as _De Croix_ passed through it—He is handsome, said the Lady _Baussiere_——He has a good mien, said _La Battarelle_——He is finely shaped, said _La Guyol_—I never saw an officer of the horse-guards in my life, said _La Maronette_, with two such legs——Or who stood so well upon them, said _La Sabatiere_——But he has no whiskers, cried _La Fosseuse_——Not a pile, said _La Rebours._ The queen went directly to her oratory, musing all the way, as she walked through the gallery, upon the subject; turning it this way and that way in her fancy—_Ave Maria!_——what can _La-Fosseuse_ mean? said she, kneeling down upon the cushion. _La Guyol, La Battarelle, La Maronette, La Sabatiere_, retired instantly to their chambers——Whiskers! said all four of them to themselves, as they bolted their doors on the inside. The Lady _Carnavallette_ was counting her beads with both hands, unsuspected, under her farthingal——from St. _Antony_ down to St. _Ursula_ inclusive, not a saint passed through her fingers without whiskers; St. _Francis_, St. _Dominick_, St. _Bennet_, St. _Basil_, St. _Bridget_, had all whiskers. The Lady _Baussiere_ had got into a wilderness of conceits, with moralizing too intricately upon _La Fosseuse_’s text——She mounted her palfrey, her page followed her——the host passed by—the Lady _Baussiere_ rode on. One denier, cried the order of mercy—one single denier, in behalf of a thousand patient captives, whose eyes look towards heaven and you for their redemption.