“But if I could not help it?”
“You should have thought of that—before you brought me to Paris, Monsieur. In these troublous times.”
He coloured warmly. “You are unjust, Mademoiselle,” he said. “There are things you forget; in a Court one is not always master of one’s self.”
“I know it,” she answered dryly, thinking of that through which she had gone.
“But you do not know what happened!” he returned with impatience. “You do not understand that I am not to blame. Madame d’Yverne, when I reached the Princess Dowager’s closet, had left to go to the Queen of Navarre. I hurried after her, and found a score of gentlemen in the King of Navarre’s chamber. They were holding a council, and they begged, nay, they compelled me to remain.”
“And it was that which detained you so long?”
“To be sure, Mademoiselle.”
“And not—Madame St. Lo?”
M. de Tignonville’s face turned scarlet. The thrust in tierce was unexpected. This, then, was the key to Mademoiselle’s spirt of temper.
“I do not understand you,” he stammered.
“How long were you in the King of Navarre’s chamber, and how long with Madame St. Lo?” she asked with fine irony. “Or no, I will not tempt you,” she went on quickly, seeing him hesitate. “I heard you talking to Madame St. Lo in the gallery while I sat within. And I know how long you were with her.”
“I met Madame as I returned,” he stammered, his face still hot, “and I asked her where you were. I did not know, Mademoiselle, that I was not to speak to ladies of my acquaintance.”
“I was alone, and I was waiting.”
“I could not know that—for certain,” he answered, making the best of it. “You were not where I left you.
