“Bah! that is ancient history--we are at Chenonceau now. When I return to Paris it is possible I may console him. Poor La Molle! one cannot be always constant. Charlotte,” said the Princess, after a pause, looking inquisitively at her, “I believe you are in love with the Balafré yourself.” Charlotte colours, and, not daring to trust her voice in reply, shakes her head and bends her eyes on the ground. Marguerite, too much occupied with her own thoughts to take much heed of her friend’s emotion, pats her fondly on the cheek, and proceeds-- “You are dull, _ma mie_; amuse yourself like me, now with one, then with another. Be constant to none. Regard your own interest and inclination only. But leave Guise alone; he is my passion. His proud reserve pleases me. His stately devotion touches me. He is a king among men. I love to torment the hero of Jarnac and Moncontour. He is jealous, too--jealous of the very air I breathe; but in time, that may become wearisome. I never thought of that,” adds she, musing. “Your highness will marry soon,” says Charlotte, rising and facing the Princess, “and then Guise must console himself----” “With you, _par exemple, belle des belles_? You need not blush so, Charlotte, I read your secret. But, _ma mie_, I mean to marry Henri de Guise myself, even if my mother and the King, my brother, refuse their consent. They may beat me--imprison me--or banish me; I will still marry Henri de Guise.” “Her Majesty will never consent to this alliance, madame.” “You are jealous, Charlotte, or you would not say so. Why should I not marry him, when my sister-in-law, the young Queen of Scots, is of the House of Lorraine?” “Yes, madame, but the case is altogether different; she is a Queen-regnant. The house of Lorraine is already too powerful.” “Ah!” exclaims the volatile Marguerite, starting up, “I love freedom; freedom in life, freedom in love. Charlotte, you say truly, I shall never be constant.” “Then, alas, for your husband! He _must_ love you, and you will break his heart.” “Husband! I will have no husband but Henri de Guise. Guise or a convent. I should make an enchanting nun!” And she laughs a low merry laugh, springs to her feet, and turns a _pirouette_ on the floor. “I think the dress would suit me. I would write Latin elegies on all my old lovers.” “You will hear somewhat of that, madame, later from the Queen,” Charlotte replies, with a triumphant air. “A husband is chosen for you already.” “Who? Who is he?” “You will learn from her Majesty very shortly.” “Charlotte, if you do not tell me this instant, I will never forgive you;” and Marguerite suddenly becomes grave and reseats herself. “Next time you want my help I won’t move a finger.” “I dare not tell you, madame.” “Then I will tell Guise to-night you are in love with him,” cries she, reddening with anger. “Oh, Princess,” exclaims Charlotte, sinking at her feet, and seizing her hand; “you would not be so cruel!” “But I will, unless you tell me.”