Fanchette fell upon her knees in the coach with a suppressed scream. She knew enough to know that offended Spain, in so small a matter as the castigation of a servant, could find easy means to have its threats fulfilled to the letter, even in the face of obvious injustice. It would be the “question” first, and exoneration, if any, after. She shook with terror. “I will confess,” she cried: “O, I will confess!” “It was a lie?” “Yes--yes.” The Infanta’s red lip curled. “Who urged you to it?--tell me.” “O, mistress!” “Tell me, I say.” Fanchette choked and battled for breath, writhing her fingers about her face. “Was it your own mean jealousy of one too noble to stoop to an understanding of your designs upon him? In that case----” Again the camériste, too debased in her terror for resentment, cried out: “No, no--mistress--listen to me: it was one--his Highness’s own favourite--he advised it.” “He? Who?” Fanchette writhed. “My father’s friend? Who? I will know.” “M. la Coque.” “La Coque! that painted coxcomb!” Amazed, for all her scorn, the girl sat a moment dumbfounded. There was revealed here a knowledge, a conspiracy, she had never suspected. Fanchette, frantic, once she had betrayed her lover, to exonerate him, went on half coherently: “He--he is devoted to your Highness’s interests; he--he only wanted to save your Highness the consequences of a fatal step. It was our tr--true regard for your Highness that made us conspire to open your eyes to the real character of an adventurer.” “To open my eyes--by a wicked lie!” Still she sat, as if stupefied; then leaned forward, strangely quiet. “You have opened my eyes, I think. This gentleman is your paramour, is he not?” Fanchette was silent, hanging her head. “Come, be bold, girl,” said the Infanta. “It is not your jealousy, is it, but the jealousy of that small and envious nature towards a nobility he can never reach that has bribed you to this baseness?” She leaned back, passing a hand across her forehead as if suddenly overcome. “That such as you,” she said, “should dare to sit in judgment on your betters.” Some note of weariness, of shaken emotion, may have struck upon the acute intuitions of the culprit. She ceased crying, and, raising her head a little, dared a breathless retort: “Not in judgment, but in sympathy, mademoiselle, since in imitating our betters we feel with them.” “What is that you say?” “No one should know better than your Highness how love intoxicates our reason.” Isabella gazed at the speaker with eyes in which the indignation was slowly giving place to distress. “Yes,” she said low. “An intrigue is an intrigue,” said Fanchette, growing bolder as the other wavered. “If it is wrong, we look to high example to make it shameful to us. In the meantime one is powerless where one has given one’s heart away.” “No doubt the blame is less yours than his,” said Isabella indistinctly.