Max Pemberton

“ De Guyon sank upon a bench and buried his face in his hands. The idol he had raised up seemed to come crashing headlong to the ground. It were as if Gabrielle had been torn from his arms in that moment; had been snatched from him while her kisses were still warm upon his lips. When Antoine spoke to him again, there were tears in his eyes.
"Courage, my master; these Huguenots are all alike," cried the honest fellow; "their virtue would not fill a nut. Diable! They have the clothes of a nun and the heart of a grisette! What a pity that you should trouble yourself with their affairs." ”

“ In truth, it was Gabrielle de Vernet's refusal that set the fires of smouldering passion aflame. He said that she should boast of her righteousness no longer; should become the sport of those very men and women at whom she had pointed her finger. And if she had thoughts of the lieutenant who had so bungled his duty, he would know how to conduct the affair to a pretty conclusion. In which spirit, he kept de Guyon a prisoner in a sunless room near the Cour Ovale, and denied to him even an account of that crime which had robbed him in a moment of his sword and of his love-dreams. ”

“ While, on the one hand, the evil-minded shrugged their shoulders, evilly implying that something more than mere spirituality lay behind the asceticism of the little Huguenot; on the other hand were many to whisper in the king's ear tales of the fascination which she exercised upon those about her, and of the indisputable beauty of which she was the possessor. Goaded by the incessant chatter to the point of active curiosity, Louis had determined to see the girl for himself, and to hear from her own lips that apocalypse with which the people credited her. ”