“In my little friend’s reports.” “Of an intrigue?” “Of an intrigue in the making, at least.” “And now nipped in the bud?” “If you authorise the process.” “She knows nothing as yet of this amiable scheme to disenchant her?” “Nothing. But the ground is all prepared.” “You do not, sir, imply for a moment that my daughter----” “Mademoiselle is as guiltless as the angels. I stake my soul on it.” “I should have preferred something of more value. But let that pass.” “You approve the scheme, then?” “If necessary. But I trust that folly is ended; that all will be well henceforth. Nevertheless I applaud your true vigilance, my friend.” “Upon my conscience, monseigneur, I think you should. Admit that I have manœuvred well both to circumvent scandal, and to make his own treachery recoil on the head of the betrayer.” “That I could hold that forfeit. But the charge is too shadowy; and he is the archduke’s protégé. Still, the time may come. Now, the man must be got rid of--and without delay.” “You will see to that, I think.” “And in the meanwhile the Infanta remains with us, here at Parma.” “Under watch, if I might suggest.” “Charlot?” “Your Highness?” “I think, perhaps, it would be as well to put your scheme at once to the proof.” “I will instruct Fanchette forthwith, sir.” “Yes, that is right. It will, perhaps, relieve the situation.” His mind cleared, he hummed a little stave, and turned roguishly on the other: “I hope you will not find that the little cocotte, like your other advocate, has accommodated herself too realistically to her part. That were a cursed return for your trust in her.” “I took it into the reckoning, sir. If she has, my own with her will come as soon as she has ceased to be of use, that is all.” “O, shocking, shocking! Come, go call la Roque, and we will forget all this tedious stuff over a game at ombre.” CHAPTER XVII. THE LOST PRESENCE It is a pathetic paradox that we never truly acquire anything until we have lost it. To possess rightly what is ours we must be deprived of it, must come to view it down the perspectives of the past and gone, to enable us to get its real proportions into focus. That would seem to imply that, as the mystics teach us, matter is the illusion and imagination the reality, since loss opens our mental vision to a thousand truths, to which while possessing them we were blind. The miser, robbed and pauperised, realises too late the countless opportunities for happiness he has forgone; the desolated lover knows at last the devotion which risked death to pleasure him, rather than deny to the lesser faith that proof which, to its own, more strong and pure, was inessential. So it often is that to die is to live for the first time as one’s true self, even in the hearts of those who cherished us.