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Rh change. Madame de Mercœur looked up with a faint smile; her lips moved, yet no sound was audible; but Francesca felt the pressure of her hand returned.

It was a strange instance of the contrasts wherewith Fate delights to mock her toy and prey—the human race—to mark the opposite scenes of that night. The Duchesse de Mercœur lay palsy-stricken on her death-bed; while her husband was full of his occupation, exerting his utmost powers of persuasion in a secret and difficult negotiation with the Duc d'Orleans,—one of those intrigues whose successes are such certain steps in the ladder of ambition. Madame de Soissons was full of triumph, to find that Louis admitted readily her plea of unbounded devotion to his lightest wish, as full excuse for somewhat of duplicity practised towards, not only Francesca, but himself. He was to sup with her that evening, and it would not be her fault if the young Italian was missed, as she had assembled every various attraction of wit, youth, and beauty. Her supper would be brilliant, while her sister was dying.

The Cardinal, as he stood beside the Queen's chair that night, during the performance of the ballet, would seem to have drawn around himself a charmed circle of prosperity; he was the real