"That is just what I feared, Louise," and the Comtesse laid her hand softly on her shoulder to rouse her from the deep reverie into which she had fallen; "that is precisely what I feared. If you cease to amuse the King, others will; he will leave you." "Holy Virgin!" cried Louise, starting from her chair and clasping her hands; "do not say so; such an idea is death to me!" "Louise, be calm; reseat yourself, and listen to me. You rarely go to Court; but you well know that his Majesty is surrounded from morning till night with crowds of most fascinating, most unscrupulous women. They follow him like his shadow; he cannot shake them off—even if he would. The poor Queen, who is as stupid as an owl, sits in a corner, sighs, and sulks, or plays at cards, and loses thousands to pass away the time. But she says nothing, and has no influence whatever over her husband. By-the-way, she is very jealous of you, Louise, and calls you 'the lady with the diamond ear-rings.'" La Vallière blushed, then sighed; and again her dreamy eyes sought the medallion portrait of the King, which she still held within the palm of her hand. "Rouse yourself, Louise; believe me there is need," urged the Comtesse. "When the King visits you next, throw off these gloomy vapours; or, if you cannot, invite some friend to be present and assist you in entertaining him." The tears gathered in La Vallière's eyes, and slowly coursed each other down her cheeks. "Alas! has it come to this, then? Do you indeed, Celestine, counsel me to call on another to do that which was once my privilege? How he once loved my company! how he praised my gentleness and my timidity, which charmed him inexpressibly, he said, after the boldness of the ladies of the Court." "All this is folly," said Madame du Roule impatiently. "The King is robust, happy, and fond of pleasure. He delights in the society of women. You must, Louise, either return to Chaillot, as you say you desire to do (excuse my frankness, dear, it is for your good), or you must change. His Majesty is neither a penitent, nor ill, nor sad. Do you know any one you can invite here when he comes?" "No," replied La Vallière with a look of infinite distress upon her plaintive face. "No one I could trust. Besides, the King might resent it as a liberty. It is a matter needing the nicest judgment."