But the morning brought requital; it was whispered in the palace
That Duke Gascon had been slighted by the Countess Delaimorn;
And though some refused it credence, saying 'twas a tale of malice,
One, who kept the secret, knew full well the meaning of her scorn.
Oh! he blessed the power of gold, that buys the miser's late relenting;
Oh! he praised the good king Mammon that he had such worthy slaves;
Oh! he thanked the Countess Delaimorn for her so firm dissenting—
And he prayed, "Heaven send the rival duke the triumph that he craves."
And his prayer was answered, truly! for a week had but departed
Ere the lily-handed Delaimorn took other rank and name;
And the young Duke Louis Gascon hardly seemed the less light-hearted
That he had been made the loser in this sort of high-bred game.
And the Crozat's drooping flower—oh, she tried to smile so brightly,
And to speak so gay, while secretly her heart was slowly breaking;
But the father's eye was faithful, and he guessed her trouble rightly—
And he swore again the solemn vow which there was no forsaking!
Crozat stood before the duchess—his confession said and ended—
All the wrong which he had done her in the well-contrived frustration
Of the marriage of Duke Louis, with his daughter's story blended,
And he waited for her answer in unwonted trepidation;
