"Ah, Celestine, that fear is ever present to me. It is agony to me; it keeps me here. Do not imagine that I misunderstand my position. I suffer because it is too painfully evident. Yet I love the King too much to resign him. Love! ah, more—I worship him!" and she raised her head, and an inner light shone from her soft grey eyes, that made them glow with passion. "Is he not my master—my sovereign!" she continued; "am I not bound to obey him? Could I exist without him? Who else but Louis could have brought me back from Chaillot? Who else could have torn me from the altar to which my heart still clings? Celestine, I know I shall return to that convent."—The Comtesse smiled incredulously.—"But," continued La Vallière, "when I see my faded face in the glass, and I know I am faded and changed,"—Madame du Roule shook her head deprecatingly—"I tremble—oh, I tremble lest I should lose him! I know I ought to rejoice at his loss," added she in a broken voice; "yet I cannot—I cannot!" and the tears streamed from her eyes, and she covered her face with her hands. "Have you perceived any difference in the behaviour of his Majesty of late?" asked Madame du Roule, when La Vallière became more composed. "Oh, what a question, Celestine! Such an idea never crossed my mind—changed now, at this time—could it be possible? When I spoke of losing him, I meant in the course of years—long, long years. Surely he would not change now?" An agonised expression came into her face as she spoke, and she turned appealingly towards her friend for reassurance against what presented itself to her as some horrible dream. "I only ask you this question for your good, dear Louise," answered the Comtesse soothingly, imprinting a kiss on her pallid cheek. La Vallière threw her arms around her neck, and made no reply. "I see you are incapable of judging for yourself. If I ask a painful question, it is to spare you, not to wound you. Answer me honestly, Louise—is his Majesty changed?" A shudder passed over the slender frame of La Vallière. For a time she could not bring herself to reply; then hesitatingly she answered: "I have fancied—but, oh heavens! may it be only a fancy—that his Majesty finds his visits to me more dull than formerly. I am so depressed myself, that must be the reason," and she bent her eyes upon her friend, hoping that she would assent; but Madame du Roule only listened with grave attention. "He has sat," continued Louise, evidently forcing herself to a painful confession, "he has sat for half an hour at a time quite silent, a thing unusual with him. He has remarked, too, repeatedly, on my altered looks; he has often regretted my low spirits. He is most considerate, most tender; but"—and she faltered more than ever—"I fear that I depress him; and I have tried—" here her voice dropped, and her eyes fixed themselves upon a medallion portrait of Louis that hung round her neck by a chain of gold. She contemplated it earnestly.