"I doe rejoyce
That you wil take me for your choyce,
And my degree\'s so base."

Considerable as was the anxiety which Count Kora\'s rout caused the Marquis de Tricotrin, his state of mind as he was carried home was enviable compared to that of his daughter. He at least had the relief of active scheming to console him, but she could only lean back in her chair and confess herself utterly miserable.

So deep was her melancholy that she found herself wondering if she were not really in love with the handsome, high-souled Prince. But the thought had no sooner framed itself than a bitter smile crossed her beautiful face, and she mocked away the only consolation that could lighten her sorrow.

"How I befool myself," she murmured, "to think I grieve for his love! It is for his power and his throne that I sigh. I know that well enough. It is all I care for."

Poor Mlle de Tricotrin! She had long[Pg 172] ceased to credit herself with one good thought, with one womanly motive. Her education had been such that it would have been strange if she had had any self-respect left. Deprived in babyhood of a mother\'s love and care, she had been left entirely in the hands of her selfish and ambitious father. He was a man no better, and perhaps not much worse, than his fellows—a self-seeking courtier, who clung with the rest to the sickly heart of France, and sucked its blood till the Revolution came and swept them all away, like the noxious parasites they were. Till then their one idea was to get a better place, where they could suck a fuller draught, and to that end they pushed and schemed and struggled, and thought no sacrifice too great.

It was the "Court of Petticoats" where M. de Tricotrin strove with the rest. Women ruled supreme. Hitherto the Marquis had not been successful. He had learnt by bitter experience that the only path to wealth and fame lay in the track of a fascinating woman. But each of them had her crowd of jostling followers; and time after time, as he had tried to grasp the flying skirts, he had been thrust out and left behind.

He was almost in despair when, after a long period of neglect, he chanced to visit his little motherless daughter at the convent where she was placed. She had grown from babyhood to be a lovely child since he had[Pg 173] seen her last, and he at once recognised the promise of extraordinary beauty that she showed. A few hours spent with her assured him of the brightness of her wit and the fascination of her manners, and he saw that a new career and a new interest was before him.

His determination was taken at once. She was removed from the convent and taken to Paris; for the Marquis had resolved to fit her for a position which was thoroughly understood in Paris alone. It was the position to which nothing was denied, to which all things were open. It was the throne before which the greatest, the most sagacious, the most upright, statesmen had to bow—before which even the proudest ecclesiastics would cringe like hounds. Who can wonder that when the brilliancy of the career was so dazzling, that the shame on which it rested could hardly be seen?

For this, then, was Mlle de Tricotrin brought up. For this she was taught to struggle, heedless of all but the end. The only duty which she learned was to be beautiful; her only books were the philosophic chatter which was the fashion of the hour; her only friends were the creatures which that rotten society engendered, and which it seems profanity to call women.

We have seen how the system succeeded. As the child came to womanhood, the Marquis knew his triumph had been greater than he had ever hoped. He saw his[Pg 174] daughter courted and petted, and he laughed to see the skill and delight with which she played her part. For no one can blame the poor child that her head was turned. The extravagant admiration with which she was everywhere greeted told her that the most honoured and powerful position in France was almost within her grasp.

Then came the crash. The long-nursed hopes were shattered to the ground, and father and daughter had to fly the country before the rising storms of the Revolution. In England M. de Tricotrin hoped to find a new arena for his child; but poor émigrés were too plentiful, and English ideas so unintelligible, and he could nowhere find even a beginning. Broken in hopes and health, he was forced at last to the South, as we have seen.

It could hardly be that, to a girl of Mlle de Tricotrin\'s natural refinement, moments of regret and repentance did not sometimes come; but they had always been stifled with the excitement of her personal triumphs. To win the power that belongs by nature to men, she had been trained to fling away the most precious treasures of women, and she did it with a light heart in the intoxication of the game. But when the lull came her self-reproach grew so constant as to be almost a pain, and so infected her as to become something she could not entirely throw off again.

[Pg 175]

The pure presence and innocent talk of Penelophon had only served to make her trouble more distinct. The beggar-maid was the first real woman she had ever known, and for the first time her own womanliness was really aroused in sympathy. She could see clearly what she was, and felt she could never be otherwise now. She despised herself, and knew the only solace was to brazen out her base career bravely. So she rejoiced cynically over the influence she was winning with Kophetua, and despised herself in secret too much to allow there was anything good in her joy. In marrying him she would gain the queenly power for which she had struggled so hard, and for which everything had been sacrificed; and in marrying him she would also escape the path of shame, by which alone she thought the goal was to be reached.

Which thought was it that made her heart ache so as she reached her room that night, and saw how she was losing him? Who shall tell? Who can read aright the thoughts that vexed that lovely figure which had thrown itself in weary grace upon the soft divan? How can a thing so beautiful know the ugliness of sorrow? Yet it is there, and tells her that Kophetua is slipping from her hands, that life will be unendurable without him, and worst of all—worst of all, the only voice to which she has ever been taught to listen is whispering the old things in her ears.

[Pg 176]

It is whispering what it is that has come between her and her end. She looks down at herself where she sits and thinks; she sees the gleaming beauty of her restless breasts, and the soft white arms and the obedient folds that wrap so closely the voluptuous figure; but the voice only whispers it is all of no avail. There is something between her and him; something which draws his eyes from her; something she has in her power to sweep away at a word.

Even as she wondered what childish scruples or silly affection it was that made her hesitate, the door opened and her father broke into the midst of her temptation. For a while he held the door in his hand, and stood admiring her as she lay curled upon the divan. At last she looked up at him with a deep-drawn breath, as though to brace herself for the crisis she saw was at hand.

"My child," said the Marquis, as he caught her glance, "you did not look well to-night. Are you ill?"

"No, sir."

"Was not the King pleased with you, then?"

"No, sir."

"That is most unfortunate," said the Marquis, in a feigned tone of extreme anxiety. "He was in a very strange humour to-night."

"Yes, sir?" said Mlle de Tricotrin, assuming an air of complete indifference.

"He spoke to me in a very extraordinary[Pg 177] manner," continued her father. "It causes me no inconsiderable anxiety."

"What did he say, sir?" said she, apparently as little concerned as ever.

M. de Tricotrin told his daughter all the opinions which the King had expressed to him, and which led him to believe that he had determined to remain a bachelor, and let things take their course; but he omitted all the arguments by which he considered he had so successfully opposed the King\'s intention. "So you see, my dear," he concluded, "that our Quixotic Kophetua is bent on abdication and a republic."

Mlle de Tricotrin had listened attentively as her father unfolded to her the King\'s indifference as to whether he reigned or not. It was the last blow on her already shattered resolution. She saw one more guarantee of her ultimate success disappearing. Though she could not own it to herself, the very loftiness and unselfishness of the King\'s ideas made her desire him more. It was more than she could bear, added to the load of temptation under which she already struggled. Suddenly laying aside her indifference, she started up in her seat, and, with a violent gesture, cried out, "He shall not abdicate!"

"How will you prevent it?" asked the Marquis, unmoved.

"I cannot prevent it; but Turbo can, and he shall!"

[Pg 178]

"But you forget there is a price to pay first, my child."

"No, I do not, sir. I remember it very well. It is not a thing to forget so soon. Bad as you have............