The maid of honour longs to tell him all the interest she feels for him, her genuine admiration, her devotion, her pity for his desolate condition; but she is new to court life, and, like himself, she is too timid as yet to put her feelings into words. She sits beside him motionless as a statue, not daring even to lift up her eyes, lest they may betray her. “Happy, ah! happy beyond words is the man who feels he is beloved, who feels that he is missed!”--here Louis stops, casts a reproachful glance at the Queen, whose back was towards him, then a shy, furtive look at Mademoiselle de Lafayette, whose heightened colour and quickened breathing betrays the intensity of her feelings: “such a one,” continues the King, “has a motive for desiring fame; he can afford to risk his life in the front of the battle. Were I”--and his voice sinks almost into a whisper--“were I dear to any one, which I know I am not, I should seek to live in history, like my father. As it is,” and he sighs, “I know that I possess no quality that kindles sympathy. I am betrayed by those whom I most trust, and hated and despised by those who are bound by nature and by law to love and honour me. My death would be a boon to some,”--again his eyes seek out the Queen--“and a blessing to myself. I am a blighted and a miserable man. Sometimes I ask myself why I should live at all?” It was not possible for the human countenance to express more absolute despair than does the King’s face at this moment. “Oh, Sire!” was all Mademoiselle de Lafayette dare trust herself to reply; indeed, she is so choked by rising sobs that it is not possible for her to say more. The King is conscious that her voice trembles; he notices also that her bosom heaves, and that she has suddenly grown very pale. Her silence, then, was not from lack of interest. Louis feels infinitely gratified by the discovery of this mute sympathy. All that was surpressed and unspoken had a subtle charm to his morbid nature. After a few moments of silence, Louis, fearful lest the Queen’s keen eyes should be turned upon them, rises. “I deeply deplore, mademoiselle, that this conversation must now end. Let me hope that it may be again resumed before my departure for the army.” Louise does not reply, but one speaking glance tells him he will not be refused. At supper, and when she attends the Queen in her private apartments, she is so absent that her friend, Madame de Sennécy, reprimands her sharply.