“Her husband! would I had never seen her, or her friend the Duchesse. They are both--well, I will not say what, certainly spies, spies of Spain. My principles forbid me to associate with such women. You look displeased, mademoiselle--what have I done?”--for Mademoiselle de Hautefort showed by her expression the disapproval she felt at his abuse of the Queen. “It is your purity, your sweetness, that alone make the Court bearable. But you are not looking at me--cruel, selfish girl! would you too forsake me?” The maid of honour feeling that she must say something, and assume an interest she did not feel, looked up into the King’s face and smiled. “I am here, Sire, for your service. I am neither cruel nor selfish, but I am grieved at the terms in which you speak of my gracious mistress. Let me pray your Majesty, most humbly, not to wound me by such language.” Her look, her manner, softened the irritable Louis. He took her hand stealthily and kissed it. He gazed at her pensively for some moments without speaking. “How beautiful you are, and wise as you are beautiful!” exclaimed he at length. “I have much to say to you, but not about my Spanish wife. Let us not mention her.” His eyes were still riveted on the maid of honour; his lips parted as if to speak, then he checked himself, but still retained her hand, which he pressed. “You hunted yesterday, Sire,” said she, confused at the King’s silence and steadfast gaze; “what number of stags did you kill? I was not present at the _curée_.” She gently withdrew her hand from the King’s grasp. “I did not hunt yesterday; I was ill,” replied Louis. “I am ill, very ill.” This allusion to his health instantly changed the current of his thoughts, for Louis was a complete valetudinarian. He became suddenly moody, and sank heavily into a seat placed behind a curtain, the thick folds of which concealed both him and the maid of honour. “I am harassed, sick to death of everything. I should die but for you. I can open my heart to you.” And then suddenly becoming conscious that Mademoiselle de Hautefort still stood before him, he drew a chair close to his side, on which he desired her to seat herself. Mademoiselle de Hautefort, knowing well that the King would now go on talking to her for a long time, assumed an attitude of pleased attention. Louis looked pale and haggard. His sallow cheeks were shrunk, his large eyes hollow. As he spoke a hectic flush went and came upon his face. “Will you not let me take your hand, mademoiselle?” said he, timidly. “I feel I could talk much better if I did, and I have much to say to you.” She reluctantly placed her hand in his. The King sighed deeply. “What is the matter, Sire?”