Mademoiselle de Hautefort, conscious that every one is watching the effect of the music and the words upon her, sits apart at the farther end of the gallery, from which the balcony projects, almost concealed from view. A door near her opens noiselessly, and the King puts in his head. He peers round cautiously, sees that no one has perceived him, and that Mademoiselle de Hautefort is alone, then he creeps in and seats himself by her side. He looks saddened and perplexed. “Why do you shun me?” he asks, abruptly. “You have been absent, Sire.” “Did you miss me?” His voice sounds so strange and hollow that Mademoiselle de Hautefort looks up into his face. Something has happened; what could it be? Some misfortune to the Queen is always her first thought. Before she can reply, Louis sighs profoundly, so profoundly that he almost groans, contemplating her, at the same time, with looks of inexpressible sorrow. “Alas!” exclaims he at last, “I had hoped so much from this interview when we parted at Fontainebleau; I have lived upon the thought, and now--my dream is ended; all is over!” The maid of honour grows alarmed: either he is gone mad, she thinks, or something dreadful has happened. “I cannot conceive what you mean, Sire?” she replies, not knowing what to say. “Are you, too, false?” he continues, “with those eyes so full of truth? Yet it must be you, it can be no other. False like the rest; a devil with an angel’s face!” The maid of honour is more and more amazed. “Yet I trusted you; with my whole heart I trusted you,” and he turns to her with a piteous expression, and wrings his hands. “I unfolded to you my forlorn and desolate condition. It might have touched you. Tell me,” he continues, in a tone of anguish, “tell me the truth; was it you who betrayed me?” Mademoiselle de Hautefort is terribly confused. She understands now what the King means; a mortal terror seizes her; what shall she say to him? She is too conscientious to deny point-blank that she has told his secret, so she replies evasively, “that she is his Majesty’s faithful servant.” “But, speak,” insists the King, “give me a plain [Illustration: CHÂTEAU OF NANTES.] answer. How does the Queen know a state secret, that I confided to you alone, that I even whispered in your ear?” “Sire, I--I do not know,” falters the maid of honour. “Swear to me, mademoiselle, that you have not betrayed me to the Queen; swear, and I will believe you. _Pardieu!_ I will believe you even if it is not true!” Louis’s eyes shine with hidden fire; his slight frame quivers. Mademoiselle de Hautefort, trembling for her mistress, with difficulty controls herself. “Your Majesty must judge me as you please,” she replies, struggling to speak with unconcern. “I call God to witness I have been faithful to my trust.”