Eugenie de Pastourelles was sitting on the terrace at Versailles.

Or rather she was established in one of the deep embrasures between the windows, on the western side.

The wind was cold, but again a glorious sun bathed the terrace and the chateau.

It was a day of splendour--a day when heaven and earth seemed to have conspired to flatter and to adorn the vast creation of Louis Quatorze, this white, flaming palace, amid the gold and bronze of its autumn trees, and the blue of its waters.

Superb clouds, of a royal sweep and amplitude, sailed through the brilliant sky; the woods that girdled the horizon were painted broadly and solidly in the richest colour upon an immense canvas steeped in light.