“Well, yes,”--and he hesitated--“it is a subject too delicate to mention.” “Have you, then, withdrawn your confidence from me, Sire?” asked she, affecting the deepest concern. “No, no--never. I tell you everything--yet, I blush to allude to such a subject.” “What subject, Sire? Does it concern her Majesty?” “By heaven it does!” cried the King, with unwonted excitement, a look of rage on his face. “It is said--” and he stopped, and looked round suspiciously, and became crimson. “Not here--not here,” he muttered, rising. “I cannot speak of it here. It is too public. Come with me into this closet.” Mademoiselle de Hautefort, foreboding some misfortune to the Queen, followed him, trembling in every limb, into a small retiring-closet opening from the gallery where they had been seated. He drew her close to the window, glanced cautiously around, and placed his hand on her arm. “It is said,”--he spoke in a low voice--“it is said--and appearances confirm it--that”--and he stooped, and whispered some words in Mademoiselle de Hautefort’s ear, who started back with horror. “If it be so,” he added coolly, “I shall crave a dispensation from the Pope, and send the Queen back to Madrid.” “For shame, Sire! you are deceived,” cried Mademoiselle de Hautefort, an expression of mingled disgust, anger, and terror on her face. She could hardly bring herself to act out the part imposed upon her for the Queen’s sake. She longed to overwhelm the unmanly Louis with her indignation; but she controlled her feelings. “On my honour, Sire,” said she firmly, “they do but converse as friends. For the truth of this I wager my life--my salvation.” “Nothing of the kind,” insisted Louis doggedly. “It is your exalted virtue that blinds you to their wickedness. My mother, who hates me--even my mother pities me; she believes in the Queen’s guilt.” “Sire,” broke in the maid of honor impetuously, her black eyes full of indignation, “I have already told you I will not hear my royal mistress slandered; this is a foul slander. To me she is as sacred as your Majesty, who are an anointed king.” Louis passed his hand over his brow, and mused in silence. “I beseech you, Sire, listen to me,” continued she, seeing his irresolution. “I speak the truth; before God I speak the truth!” Louis looked fixedly at her. Her vehemence impressed, if it did not convince him. “Your Majesty needs not the counsel of the Queen-mother in affairs of state; do not trust her, or any one else, in matters touching the honour of your consort.” And she raised her eyes, and looked boldly at him. “Promise me, Sire, to dismiss this foul tale from your mind.” “All your words are precious, mademoiselle,” replied Louis evasively, and he caught her hand and kissed it with fervour. Mademoiselle de Hautefort dared not press him further. She withdrew her hand. They were both silent, and stood opposite to each other. As Louis gazed into her eyes, still sparkling with indignation, his anger melted away.