"The widow of the poet Scarron!"

"She is of good birth. Her grandfather and his were dear friends."

"It is impossible."

"But I know his heart, and I say it is possible."

"You certainly know his heart, father, if any can. But such a thought
had never entered my head."

"Then let it enter and remain there. If she will serve the Church, the
Church will serve her. But the king beckons, and I must go."

The thin dark figure hastened off through the throng of courtiers, and
the great Bishop of Meaux remained standing with his chin upon his
breast, sunk in reflection.

By this time all the court was assembled in the _Grand Salon_, and the
huge room was gay from end to end with the silks, the velvets, and the
brocades of the ladies, the glitter of jewels, the flirt of painted
fans, and the sweep of plume or aigrette. The grays, blacks, and browns
of the men's coats toned down the mass of colour, for all must be dark
when the king was dark, and only the blues of the officers' uniforms,
and the pearl and gray of the musketeers of the guard, remained to call
back those early days of the reign when the men had vied with the women
in the costliness and brilliancy of their wardrobes. And if dresses had
changed, manners had done so even more. The old levity and the old
passions lay doubtless very near the surface, but grave faces and