“The blood of France runs in her veins, Monsieur.” Then, for the first time, a pale smile touched her pallour. “Quand meme! No de Contrecoeur tires of endeavour while life endures� . Twenty-two years, Monsieur. Look upon her!� And for one and twenty years I have forced myself to live in hope of this moment! Do you understand?” She made a vague gesture and shook her head. “Nobody can understand — not even I, though I have lived the history of many ages.”

Still keeping my hand in hers, she stood there silent, looking down at her daughter. Then, silently, she knelt beside her on the soft fawnskin, drawing me gently to my knees beside her.

“And you are to take her from me,” she murmured.

“Madame — —