“I need not ask if there is love in this business,” said the king, raising his daughter’s head gently and stroking her chin. “If you don’t confess every morning, my daughter, you will go to hell.” “Cannot you oblige me without forcing me to tell my secret thoughts?” “Where would be the pleasure?” cried the king, seeing only an amusement in this affair. “Ah! do you want your pleasure to cost me grief?” “Oh! you sly little girl, haven’t you any confidence in me?” “Then, sire, set the young nobleman at liberty.” “So! he is a nobleman, is he?” cried the king. “Then he is not an apprentice?” “He is certainly innocent,” she said. “I don’t see it so,” said the king, coldly. “I am the law and justice of my kingdom, and I must punish evil-doers.” “Come, don’t put on that solemn face of yours! Give me the life of that young man.” “Is it yours already?” “Sire,” she said, “I am pure and virtuous. You are jesting at--” “Then,” said Louis XI., interrupting her, “as I am not to know the truth, I think Tristan had better clear it up.” Marie turned pale, but she made a violent effort and cried out:-- “Sire, I assure you, you will regret all this. The so-called thief stole nothing. If you will grant me his pardon, I will tell you everything, even though you may punish me.” “Ho, ho! this is getting serious,” cried the king, shoving up his cap. “Speak out, my daughter.” “Well,” she said, in a low voice, putting her lips to her father’s ear, “he was in my room all night.” “He could be there, and yet rob Cornelius. Two robberies!” “I have your blood in my veins, and I was not born to love a scoundrel. That young seigneur is the nephew of the captain-general of your archers.” “Well, well!” cried the king; “you are hard to confess.” With the words the king pushed his daughter from his knee, and hurried to the door of the room, but softly on tiptoe, making no noise. For the last moment or two, the light from a window in the adjoining hall, shining through a space below the door, had shown him the shadow of a listener’s foot projected on the floor of his chamber. He opened the door abruptly, and surprised the Comte de Saint-Vallier eavesdropping. “Pasques-Dieu!” he cried; “here’s an audacity that deserves the axe.” “Sire,” replied Saint-Vallier, haughtily, “I would prefer an axe at my throat to the ornament of marriage on my head.” “You may have both,” said Louis XI. “None of you are safe from such infirmities, messieurs. Go into the farther hall. Conyngham,” continued the king, addressing the captain of the guard, “you are asleep! Where is Monsieur de Bridore? Why do you let me be approached in this way? Pasques-Dieu! the lowest burgher in Tours is better served than I am.” After scolding thus, Louis re-entered his room; but he took care to draw the tapestried curtain, which made a second door, intended more to stifle the words of the king than the whistling of the harsh north wind.