"Well, why haven't you handed it to her, knave?" said the duke; "is that all the respect you have for a nobleman's command?" "I did hand it to her, monsieur; I did indeed!" "Francinette!" roared the duke. Francinette, who was listening at the door, made but one bound from the reception-room into the bedroom. "Why didn't you give your mistress the letter Monsieur de Canolles left for her?" "Why, monseigneur--" murmured the maid, in deadly terror. "Monseigneur!" thought the amazed Biscarros, shrinking into the most remote corner of the room; "Monseigneur! it must be some prince in disguise." "I had not asked her for it," Nanon, pale as a ghost, hastened to say. "Give it me," said the duke, extending his hand. Poor Francinette slowly held out the letter, turning to her mistress with a look which seemed to say,-- "You see that it's no fault of mine; that imbecile of a Biscarros has ruined everything." Two fierce gleams shot from Nanon's eyes, and pierced Biscarros in his corner. The sweat stood in great drops on the poor wretch's brow, and he would have given the six louis he had in his pocket to be standing in front of his oven with the handle of a saucepan in his hand. Meanwhile the duke had taken the letter and opened it, and was reading. As he read, Nanon stood beside him, paler and colder than a statue, feeling as if no part of her were alive save her heart. "What does all this mean?" queried the duke. Nanon knew by that question that the letter did not compromise her. "Read it aloud, and I can explain it perhaps," said she. "'Dear Nanon,'" the duke began. He turned to his companion, who became more composed with every second, and bore his gaze with admirable self-possession. "'Dear Nanon,'" the duke resumed:-- "'I am availing myself of the leave of absence I owe to your good offices, and to divert my mind, I am going for a short gallop on the Paris road. Au revoir; I commend my fortune to your attention.' "_Ah ça!_ why, this Canolles is mad!" "Mad? Why so?" rejoined Nanon. "Does a sane man start off in this way at midnight, without a reason for so doing?" "I should say as much," said Nanon to herself. "Come, explain his departure to me." "Eh! _mon Dieu!_ monseigneur," said Nanon, with a charming smile, "nothing can be easier than that." "She, too, calls him monseigneur," muttered Biscarros. "He is a prince, beyond question." "Well, tell me." "What! can you not guess which way the wind blows?" "Not in the least." "Canolles is twenty-seven years old; he is young, handsome, thoughtless. What particular form of madness do you suppose he prefers? Love. He must have seen some fair traveller pass Master Biscarros' door, and have followed her." "He's in love, you think?" cried the duke, smiling at the very natural reflection that, if Canolles was in love with any traveller whatsoever, he was not in love with Nanon.