A deep blush suffused her cheeks. Some moments passed before she could command her voice. "Sire," she replied at last, and her white lips trembled, "Sire, I can never again live the old life,—but I will obey you." The King was about to rush forward to embrace her. She stopped him by a gesture gentle yet determined. He fell back. "Sire, you love another. Hitherto I have quieted my conscience by the conviction that I was needful to you. Now I know it is not so. Take back these tablets, Sire. Can you deny these verses, written by your own hand but a few days since?" Louis stood before her, silenced, confounded. Her composure astonished him. Before him was La Vallière—hitherto his slave, now so determined! Her hand rested on a table for support. She was deadly pale, and carefully avoided his gaze. He was deeply moved. "Do I not offer you enough?" said he. "No, Louis, it is not enough. I will obey you; I will receive Madame de——" Her voice dropped, and the hated name was inaudible. "Nay, I will do more; I will again appear at Court if you command it, but all hope, all joy, is dead within me." She uttered these words deliberately. It was despair that gave her courage. Then she raised her eyes, and rested them for the first time on him, with an agonised expression. "I must have your undivided love as heretofore, or——" and she paused. "I know that my words are sinful," she added. "I have fled from you; now I am returned for a little space." Louis looked perplexed. "But, Louise, believe me, that you are still inexpressibly dear to me; my heart has wandered, it is true, but you yet possess my affection, my esteem." "It is not enough," repeated La Vallière in a low voice, "it is not enough. You are turned from me, you have joined in deceiving me; I am supplanted." The tears sprang involuntarily into the King's eyes as he stood with folded arms contemplating her. He did not dare approach her. How strange it seemed that one so meek and gentle could be so firm. Never before had her lips uttered anything to him but words of tenderness. Once more she spoke. "As long as you desire it, Sire, I will remain. It is a penance I shall offer up to God, to remain and to see you love another." She turned her large grey eyes up to heaven as she spoke. "When you give me permission, I shall become a Carmelite." "I will never permit it!" cried Louis, stamping his foot upon the floor. A scowl passed over his face; he was angry, offended, at her obstinacy; his imperious will could not brook contradiction. "You have never loved me!" he exclaimed. "Sire!" cried La Vallière. "Not loved you!" "No; you have always preferred your religious scruples to me. You have tormented me with your remorse. You know nothing of the intoxication of passion. _You_ ought to have gloried in my love, as others do," he muttered, in a low voice, turning from her.