THE LOVE OF MONSIEUR
There were four sorrel horses, a coachman, footman, and two outriders. With a whirl of dust and the shouting of men the horses were thrown upon their haunches and the coach came to a stop directly before Mistress Barbara’s door. She peered out of the window, curiously agape, to know the identity of her visitor. From the way in which he traveled abroad it must be a person of condition—she felt assured a minister or dignitary of the city, come perhaps to beseech her influence. There was a glimmer of bright color in the sunlight. A splendid figure, periwigged and bonneted in the latest mode, sprang out and to her front door. She had barely time to withdraw her head before there was a knock and her lackey opened in some trepidation.
“Madame, ’tis Monsieur the Vicomte de Bresac—”
“Did I not give orders—” she began, and then stopped. “De Bresac! De Bresac! What can it mean?”
“Madame, ’tis a matter of importance and—er—”
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