“Duchesse,” continues Anne in a low voice, addressing the Duchesse de Chevreuse, “tell mademoiselle what you would do were you adored by a great king. Would you refuse to look at him when he stands before you--red, white, smiling, almost weeping, a spectacle of what a fool even a sovereign may make of himself?” And the Queen laughs again softly, and, for an instant, mimicks the grotesque expression of the King’s face. “Madame,” says Mademoiselle de Hautefort, looking up and speaking gravely, “the opinion of Madame la Duchesse would not influence me. We take different views of life. Your Majesty knows that the King is not my lover, and that I only converse with him out of the duty I owe your Majesty. I beseech you, Madame,” adds she, in a plaintive voice, “do not laugh at me. My task is difficult enough. I have to amuse a Sovereign who cannot be amused--to feign an interest I do not feel. Her grace the Duchesse de Chevreuse would, I doubt not, know how to turn the confidence with which his Majesty honours me to much better account”; and Mademoiselle de Hautefort glances angrily at the Duchess, who smiles scornfully, and makes her a profound curtsey. “You say true, mademoiselle,” replies she; “I should certainly pay more respect to his Majesty’s exalted position, and perhaps I should feel more sympathy for the passion I had inspired. However, you are but a mere girl, new to court life. You will learn in good time, mademoiselle--you will learn.” Mademoiselle de Hautefort, about to make a bitter reply, is interrupted by the Queen. “Come, _petite sotte_,” says Anne, still speaking under her breath, “don’t lose your temper. We all worship you as the modern Diana. Venus is not at all in the line of our royal spouse. Look, he can bear it no longer; he has left the room. There he stands in the anteroom, casting one last longing look after you; I see it in the glass. Go, mademoiselle, I dismiss you--go and console his Majesty with your Platonic friendship.” Mademoiselle de Hautefort left the room, and was instantly joined by Louis, who drew her into the embrasure of an oriel window. CHAPTER XXX. THE ORIEL WINDOW. “You have come at last,” said Louis eagerly. “Why would you not look at me? I have suffered tortures; I abhor the Queen’s ladies, a set of painted Jezebels, specially the Duchesse de Chevreuse, a dangerous intriguer, her Majesty’s evil genius. I saw them all mocking me. Why did you not look at me? you knew I came for you,” repeated he, querulously. “Surely, Sire, I could not be so presumptuous as to imagine that a visit to her Majesty from her husband concerned me.”