Enough was soon gathered to give him a clue to his policy. He aimed at nothing more at the outset than the disgrace and recall of his detested rival, as he chose to consider him--an end, nevertheless, which must be effected without compromising the Infanta. He was sharp enough to see that any mistake in that direction might involve himself in ruin. It would be sufficient for his purpose could Tiretta be led, somehow and definitely, into an amorous self-betrayal, armed with the evidences of which it would be easy for anyone to procure the reptile’s dismissal. He instructed Fanchette to affect sympathy, to worm herself into the chevalier’s confidence, to inveigle him if possible into a pretended intrigue with herself, on the score that it would at once cover his real design and afford him particular opportunities for prosecuting it. He instructed her so to manage appearances, in fine, that at the right moment M. Tiretta could be represented to the duke for the traitor he actually was, and to the Infanta as having been secretly prosecuting all this time a discreditable _affaire_ with her own serving maid. And to this pretty programme, Fanchette, a procuress for love’s sake, was amiably prepared to subscribe--even though she might endanger her own emotions in the process. For she certainly found a fearful joy in playing with the fire kindled for another’s consuming. As material for the plot, that little scene in the corridor had had its timely uses. It had put her and her gentleman on a confidential footing, which that later whispered colloquy had encouraged and his own indecision confirmed. Thereafter he must suffer her secret intelligences meekly, and little by little cease of any pretence at misreading them. In truth, poor fool, in the torment of self-reproach he must endure, the solace of a sympathetic ally was hardly to be refused. Somehow it seemed to make him feel less guilty. Not that he frankly countenanced Fanchette’s partisanship, or ever appeared to assume an inner meaning from it. But, like the artless receivers of stolen goods we hear of, he accepted its fruits unquestioning, and, when she made profitable opportunities for him, took them with the most ingenuous air possible. He thought, in truth, she was a friend, and so played in all things into her hands. The main thing was, for his greater exposure and degradation, to discredit him in Isabella’s eyes. Fanchette took a peculiar pleasure in that moiety of her task. One day, having manœuvred to come upon him alone in the grounds, she met him point blank with a question which brought him up aghast: “Are you in love with me, monsieur?” He stared a moment, and then bungled out a monosyllable: “Why?” “O!” she said; “it is a fair challenge, is it not? Tell me--do you think me pretty?” He was beginning to recover his self-possession. “Yes, certainly I do, Fanchette,” he said. “Do you take an obvious pleasure in my company?”