A sad look comes into her eyes,--she heaves a deep sigh, throws back her head and gazes upwards. The softened rays of the moon shine upon her face, light up the masses of her golden hair, and play among the folds of a long white robe which encircles her to the feet. She sits framed, as it were, in a circle of supernatural lustre. Monsieur is beside her, rapt in admiration. The beautiful vision before him intoxicates his senses. The landmarks of social restriction, of tyrannous etiquette, have vanished, gone, with the sun and the daylight. He forgets that she is a great queen, the wife of his brother--his Sovereign; he forgets that their attendants, though invisible, are at hand, that a glittering palace lies hid among the woods, with its attendant multitudes; he forgets all save that she is there before him, a dazzling presence, sprung, as it seems, out of the darkness of the night. He gazes at her with speechless rapture. Words which had often before trembled on his lips must now be uttered. He is about to speak, when the Queen, unconscious of what is passing within him, awakes from her reverie and points to the forest. “See, Gaston, how the moon plays upon those branches. I could almost believe that some fantastic shapes are gliding amongst the trees. Let us go back; the forest is horribly dark, it frightens me.” And she shudders. “I can see nothing but you, my sister,” answers Monsieur, softly. “You are the very goddess of the night.” And his eyes rest on her with an impassioned gaze. Anne of Austria still looks fixedly into the thicket, as if fascinated by the mystery of the great woods. Again she shudders and wraps the light mantle she wore closer around her. “It is late, my brother,” she says, rising. “If I stay longer I shall have evil dreams. Let us go.” “Oh, my sister! oh, Anne!” cries the Duke, “let us stay here for ever.” And he caught one of the folds of her white robe, kissed it, and gently endeavoured to draw her, again, toward the balustrade. “By no means,” replied the Queen, startled, for the first time meeting his eyes. “Ah, my brother,” adds she, becoming suddenly much confused, “are you sure you do not frighten me more than the strange shapes among the trees?” “Trust me,” cries Monsieur ardently, retaining her robe almost by force. “Tell me you will trust me--now, always. Ah, my sister, my heart bleeds for you. Never, never will you find one so devoted to you as I----” There was a certain eloquence in his words, a truth in his protestings, that seemed to touch her. Anne flushes from head to foot. “Monsieur--Gaston--let me go.” And she disengages herself with difficulty. Monsieur now rose. “Where is the Duchesse de Chevreuse?” asks Anne, not knowing what to say. “No fear for her: she is well attended,” replies Monsieur in a voice full of vexation. “Every one is in good luck but me. I never saw a man so madly in love as poor Chalais, and the Duchess returns it.”