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 in which he consorted with kings, dukes, and princes of the realm, and boasted of a king for an intimate. In a moment he had rendered at naught the struggles of years—had tossed aside, as one would discard a worn-out hat or glove, all chances of future preferment in France and England—all for a foolish whim, for a pair of silly gray eyes. She hid her face in her arms. Fools! all fools!

She hated herself that she did not hate Monsieur Mornay. Struggle as she would, now that he was gone she knew that the impulsive words that she had used when she had spurned him had sprung from no origin of thought or reflection, but were the rebellious utterings of anger at his intrusion—of resentment and uncharity at the tale he told. But what if it were true? She sat upright, and with a struggle tried dispassionately and calmly to go over, one by one, each word of his speech, each incident of his bearing, as he told his portentous story of the secrets of her family. How had Monsieur Mornay come into possession of all this information? She knew that Eloise de Bresac had died in France 115