"How I admire your devotion to his Majesty," she said, in the most insinuating voice. "It is extraordinary." Her kind words singularly belied her cruel expression, but Louise, blinded by her tears, did not observe this. "What astonishes me is that, feeling as you do, you can endure to remain here—so close to the palace, almost living in the Court, so long. In such magnificence too,"—and she gave a spiteful glance round the superbly decorated saloon. "You must have extraordinary self-command," she added artfully, "immense self-denial. I suppose you see his Majesty often, Madame la Duchesse?" she asked this question with well-affected indifference, fixing her eyes steadily on poor La Vallière, who still lay back in her chair, weeping. "He is always at Versailles. It must be a great trial, and with your religious convictions too." As she spoke she carefully noted the effect each word produced upon La Vallière. "Alas!" replied her victim, her cheeks now suffused with a burning blush, "I see him almost daily. Those hours are all that render life endurable." "Do you really mean this, dear Duchess?" returned Madame de Montespan, feigning extreme surprise. "I should have imagined that the refinement of your nature would have rendered the indulgence of a guilty passion impossible." "Ah! I see you despise me," groaned poor La Vallière, overcome by shame. "I cannot wonder. Young and pure as you are, I must be to you an object of horror." "Oh, Madame la Duchesse, what a word! On the contrary, I admire the sacrifice you make." "Alas!" interrupted La Vallière, "it is no sacrifice. I cannot tear myself from him because—because—" she stopped for a moment, then added hastily, "I fear to give him pain. It seems to me I ought to bear anything rather than hurt one whose love has raised me so near himself. I have not the courage to wound him—perhaps to embitter his whole life. No, although conscience, duty, religion command it, I have not the courage." La Vallière turned aside and hid her face. Madame de Montespan fell into a deep muse. Again an expression of cruel determination passed over her fair young face, and she gave La Vallière a glance in which malice, anger, and contempt were mingled. La Vallière, absorbed in her own sorrow, did not perceive it. "How I grieve for you, dear friend," Madame de Montespan continued, speaking in her sweetest voice. "How I respect your scruples. Are you sure," added she, carefully noting the effect of her words, "that the King would _really_ suffer from your absence as keenly as you imagine!" "I have never dared broach the subject," answered La Vallière, looking up. "My remorse I cannot hide. He knows I suffer, he sees I am ill. But I would not for worlds openly acknowledge that I wish to forsake him." "Yet, dear Duchess, this struggle will kill you. What a balm to your sensitive feelings the solitude of a convent would be! Among those holy sisters, in a life of prayer, you would find new life."