“Well, Sire, if it is only my presence you want, I will follow you to the end of the world--I will go anywhere;” Gabrielle spoke with impassioned ardour. “_Ma mie!_ it is this love alone that enables me to bear all the anxieties and troubles that surround me on every side. I value it more than the Crown of France; but this very love of yours, entire as I believe it to be, is the one principal cause of my misery.” “How can that be?” answered she caressingly; “I love you--I will ever be constant, I swear it solemnly, Henry.” “Yes,” replied he thoughtfully, “but I have promised you marriage--you must sit beside me as Queen of France. Do you forget that I have the honour of being the husband of a queen--the sister of three defunct monarchs--the most abandoned, the most disgraceful, the most odious----” “Sire, you need not think about her; you are not obliged to be a witness of her disorders. Let her enjoy all her gallantries at the Castle of Usson. You can easily divorce her when you please----and then nothing can part us.” “_Ventre Saint Gris!_ cursed be the demon who dishonours me by calling herself my wife! that wretch who prevents my marrying the angel whom I love so entirely--your own sweet self!” “Henry, my heart at least is yours.” “Yes, dearest; but not more mine than I am yours eternally--and I would recompense your love as it deserves. But know, Gabrielle, that Marguerite de Valois absolutely refuses to consent to a divorce that I may marry you. She declares she acts in my interests; but I believe her odious pride is offended at being succeeded by a gentlewoman of honest and ancient lineage, a thousand times better than all the Valois that ever lived, a race born of the Devil, I verily believe. I have threatened her with a state trial; the proofs against her are flagrant. She knows that she would in that case be either beheaded or imprisoned for life. Not even that shakes her resolve, so inveterate is she against our union.” “Alas! poor lady--did she ever love you?” “Not a whit; she was false from the beginning. Let us speak of her no more,” said the King, rising and walking up and down the room. Then stopping opposite Gabrielle, who, dismayed at what she heard, sat with her face buried in her hands, he asked her, “How about Bellegarde?” Gabrielle shrank back, then looked up at him. “Are you sure he is entirely banished from your remembrance?” “As much as if I had never known him,” replied she promptly. “I depend upon your pledge of meeting him no more, because, good-natured as I am--and I am good natured, _Par Dieu!_--I am somewhat choleric and hot (God pardon me), and if by chance I ever surprised you together, why, _vrai Dieu_, if I had my sword I might be sorry for the consequences.” “Sire, there is no danger; you may wear your sword for me. If such a thing ever occurred, it is I who would deserve to die.”