He turned to Peyrolles, who was standing close to his master's side, and commanded: "Bring in Mademoiselle Gabrielle de Nevers."

In a moment Peyrolles had vanished from the room, leaving every man in the a.s.sembly impressed and startled by Gonzague's statement. The king looked from Gonzague, whose face he had been studying while he spoke with admiration and approval, and fixed his keen gaze upon the princess. She alone, of all those in the room, seemed unmoved by the momentous tidings that her husband had communicated. The younger men whispered among themselves, the elders kept silence, but it was plain that their curiosity was very great.

In a few moments Peyrolles returned to the room escorting Flora, now very beautifully attired in a dress of simple richness.

Chavernay could not restrain his surprise as she entered. "The little dancing-girl," he whispered to his right-hand neighbor, Choisy, but he said no more. Even his airy nature was impressed by the stillness of the company and the gravity of the situation.

Gonzague took the hand of Flora and conducted her across the room to the princess. "Madame," he said, "I restore your child."

The princess looked fixedly at the girl, her thin hands clasping the arms of her chair convulsively, and it could be seen that she was trembling from head to foot. She was waiting for a voice, she was wondering if she would hear a voice, and as she waited and wondered she heard a voice from behind the curtain near where she sat apart, a voice which reached her ears, a voice with a mysterious message--"I am here."

The princess clasped her hand to her heart. "Ah!" she murmured, "will the dead speak? Is this my child?" And again the voice spoke and answered: "No."

By this time Gonzague and the girl had reached the princess, who now rose to her feet and confronted the pair as she spoke. "My child should have with her a packet containing the page torn away from the register of the chapel of Caylus, torn away with my own hands." She turned to Flora and questioned her: "Have you that packet?"

Flora dropped on her knees and stretched out her hands with a pretty, pathetic air of supplication. "Madame, I have nothing. Ah, madame, the poor little gypsy girl asks of you neither wealth nor station; she only entreats you to love her as she loves you."

The princess prayed silently: "Oh, Heaven help me! Heaven inspire me!"

Gonzague was startled by this sudden hostility to his scheme, but spoke with respectful earnestness: "Madame," he said, slowly, "we have depositions, sworn to and duly attested in Madrid, that this girl, then a year-old child, was given to a band of gypsies by a man whose description coincides exactly with that of one of the men believed to have been concerned in the attack upon Louis de Nevers in the moat of Caylus. We have their statements that in their hearing the man called the child Gabrielle, that he said to the head gypsy that she was of n.o.ble birth, and that he gave her up to them because he wished the child to suffer for the hate he bore her father. All this and more than this we can prove. For my part, I say that in this girl's lineaments I seem to see again the features of my dear dead friend. Madame, to reject the child whom we believe to be the daughter of Nevers, you must have reasons grave indeed--the strongest proofs. Have you such reasons, such proofs?"

From behind the curtain a voice travelled to the princess's ears, murmuring, "Yes," and the princess repeated, "Yes," confidently.

Gonzague drew himself up with a look of pain and sorrow. "I understand, madame. Some impostor, speculating upon your sorrow, has told you that he has found your child."

Chavernay whispered behind his hand to Navailles: "Our cousin is losing his temper."

As the princess kept silent, Gonzague pressed his question: "Is that not so, madame? Speak! Is this not so? Some one has told you that she is alive?"

The princess heard the voice behind the curtain whisper: "She lives."

Looking steadily at Gonzague, she said: "She lives, in spite of you, by the grace of G.o.d."

The agitation of the audience was very great. The king directly addressed the princess: "Can you produce her?"

Again the voice whispered to the Princess, "Yes," and again the Princess repeated, "Yes," as confidently as before.

"When?" asked the king, to whom Gonzague had at once yielded the privilege of question.

The voice whispered, "To-night," and the princess repeated the words.

The voice whispered again, "At the ball in the Palais Royal," and again the Princess echoed it, "At the ball in the Palais Royal."

The king had no more to say; he was silent. Gonzague groaned aloud as he turned to Flora. "My poor child, only G.o.d can give you back the heart of your mother."

The girl, with the quick impulsiveness of her race, again flung herself on her knees before the princess, while she cried: "Madame, whether you are my mother or not, I respect you, I love you!"

The princess laid her hand gently on the girl's dark hair. "My child, my child, I believe you are no accomplice of this crime. I wish you well."

Flora was now sobbing bitterly, and seemed unable to rise. Peyrolles hastened to her side, hastened to lift her to her feet, and hurriedly conducted the weeping girl from the room. The princess, holding her head high, turned and addressed the king: "Your majesty, my mourning ends to-day. I have recovered my daughter. I shall be your guest to-night, sire."

The king bowed profoundly. "Believe that we shall be most proud to welcome you."

The princess made him a reverence and turned to leave the room. The king quitted his chair, hastened to her side, and gave her his arm to the door. When she had departed, Louis of France hastened to Gonzague where he stood alone, the centre of wondering eyes. "What is the meaning of this double discovery?" he asked.

Gonzague shook his head with the air of one who is faced by a shameful conspiracy, but who is not afraid to face it. "I have found Nevers's child. Who the impostor is I do not know, but I shall know--and then--"

He paused, but his menacing silence was more impressive than any speech.

The king wrung his friend's hand warmly. "I hope you may. Till to-night, gentlemen."

All were standing now. The king embraced the company in a general salutation and went out, followed by his friends. The lawyers, the ecclesiastics took their leave. Only the friends of Gonzague remained in the room, and they stood apart, eying their master dubiously, uncertain whether he would wish them to go or to stay. Chavernay took it upon himself, with his usual lightness of heart, to play their spokesman. He advanced to Gonzague and addressed him.

"Can we condole with you on this game of cross-purposes?"

Gonzague turned to Chavernay, and his countenance was calm, bold, almost smiling. "No. I shall win the game. We shall meet to-night. Perhaps I shall need your swords."

"Now, as ever, at your service," Navailles protested, and the rest murmured their agreement with the speaker. Then Gonzague's partisans slowly filed out of the room, Chavernay, as usual, smiling, the others unusually grave. Gonzague turned to Peyrolles, who had returned from his task of convoying Flora to her apartments. "Who has done all this?" he asked.

He thought he was alone with his henchman, but he was mistaken. aesop had quietly entered the room, and was standing at his side. aesop answered the question addressed to Peyrolles. "I can tell you. The man you can neither find nor bind."

Gonzague started. "Lagardere?"

aesop nodded. "Lagardere, whom I will give into your hands if you wish."

Gonzague caught at his promise eagerly. "When?" he asked.

"To-night, at the king's ball," aesop answered.

XXIII

THE KING'S BALL

The gardens of the Palais Royal made a delightful place for such an entertainment as the king's ball. In its contrasts of light and shadow, in its sombre alleys starred with colored lights, in its blend of courtly pomp and sylvan simplicity, it seemed the fairy-like creation of some splendid dream. Against the vivid greenness of the trees, intensified by the brightness of the blazing lamps, the whiteness of the statues a.s.serted itself with fantastic emphasis. Everywhere innumerable flowers of every hue and every odor sweetened the air and pleased the eye, and through the blooming s.p.a.ces, seemingly as innumerable as the blossoms and seemingly as brilliant, moved the gay, many-colored crowd of the king's guests. The gardens were large, the gardens were s.p.a.cious, but the king's guests were many, and seemed to leave no foot of room unoccupied. Hither and thither they drifted, swayed, eddied, laughing, chattering, intriguing, whispering, admiring, wondering, playing all the tricks, repeating all the antics that are the time-honored attributes and privileges of a masquerade. Here trained dancers executed some elaborate measure for the entertainment of those that cared to pause in their wandering and behold them; there mysterious individuals, in flowing draperies, professed to read the stars and tell the fortunes of those that chose to spare some moments from frivolity for such mystic consultations.

In the handsomest part of the garden, hard by the Pond and Fountain of Diana, a magnificent tent had been pitched, which was reserved for the accommodation of the king himself and for such special friends as he might choose to invite to share his privacy. Around this tent a stream of mirth-makers flowed at a respectful distance, envying--for envy is present even at a masquerade--those most highly favored where all were highly favored in being admitted into the sovereign's intimacy.

At the door of this tent, Monsieur Breant, who had been one of the cardinal's princ.i.p.al servants, and who still remained the head custodian of the palace, was standing surveying the scene with a curiosity dulled by long familiarity. He was unaware that a sombrely clad hunchback, quite an incongruous figure in the merry crowd, was making for him, until the hunchback, coming along beside him, touched him on the arm and called him by name: "Monsieur Breant!"

Breant turned and gazed at the hunchback with some surprise. "Who are you?" he asked.

The hunchback laughed as he answered: "Don't you know me? Why, man, I am aesop the Second. My ill.u.s.trious ancestor laughed at all the world, and so do I. He loved the Greek girl Rhodopis, who built herself a pyramid. I am wiser than he, for I love only myself."

Breant shrugged his shoulders and made to turn upon his heel. "I have no time for fooling."

aesop detained him. "Don't leave me; I am good company."