“What have I done that your Majesty should scorn me?” said she, stretching out her beautiful hand with the most winning gesture to detain him. Louis shrank from her touch, and turned his back upon her. “Sire, will you not at least hear me, as you would hear the least of your subjects?” and the Queen’s eyes filled with tears and her hand dropped to her side. “What have you to say to me?” asked Louis harshly, not looking at her. “When I last saw your Majesty at Compiègne,” replied she with a faltering voice, “your mother, the Queen-dowager”--at her name Louis shuddered--“was mistress of the palace and of France. She sat at the royal board; she presided at the Council of State; your Majesty obeyed and loved her as a son. She is now a prisoner--disgraced, forsaken, ill.” The Queen’s voice became so unsteady that she was obliged to stop, and unbidden tears rolled down her cheeks. “What has this great Queen done to deserve your Majesty’s displeasure?” she added after a pause. “Madame, it is no affair of yours,” answered Louis gruffly. “I refuse to give you my reasons. I act according to the advice of my council. Do not detain me,” and he turned again to leave the room. Anne placed herself in front of him; her head was thrown back, her figure raised to its full height, the tears on her eyelids were dried; she was no longer timid, but exasperated. “If I have ventured to intercede for the Queen-mother,” said she with dignity, “it is because she implored me to do so. She wept upon my bosom. Her heart was all but broken. I comforted her as a daughter. I promised her to use such feeble powers as I had, to soften your heart, Sire. It is a sacred pledge I am discharging.” “You are a couple of hypocrites!” exclaimed Louis with great irritation, facing round upon her. “You hate each other. From my mother I have freed myself; but you--” and he surveyed her savagely from head to foot--“you, Madame Anne of Austria, you remain.” “Yes, I remain,” returned Anne, “until, as I am told, you crave a dispensation from the Pope and send me back to Madrid.” These last words were spoken slowly and with marked emphasis. “I am a childless queen,” and she shot a bitter glance at Louis, who now stood rooted to the spot and listened to her with an expression of speechless amazement. “Who told you, Madame, that I sought a dispensation from the Pope, and to send you back to Madrid?” asked Louis sharply. Then, without waiting for an answer, he put his hand to his forehead as if some sudden thought had struck him, knit his brows, and was lost in thought. “I have heard so, no matter how,” answered the Queen coolly, “and on excellent authority. Sire,” she cried passionately, no longer able to restrain her feelings, “you use me too ill--rather than suffer as I do I will leave France for ever; I will not bear the mockery of being called your wife--I would rather bury myself in a convent at Madrid.”