"Sire," cried La Vallière, stung to the quick by his injustice, "I am at this moment forcing my conscience to obey you and to remain." "You are too weak, too feeble, for a great passion," continued the King hurriedly. "Others can feel it, however." "I have never sold myself for ambition, Sire, as others do. I have never desired anything of you but yourself, and I have lost you." Louis, crimson with passion, did not reply. He strode up and down the room in moody silence. La Vallière for a time was also silent. Her eyes followed him. His face was hard, and no glance told her that he even pitied her. It was too much. The strain upon her gentle nature gave way. The pent-up tears rushed to her eyes, she burst into heart-rending sobs and sank upon a seat. The King watched her, but he spoke not a word. His look was stern and set. For a while her tears flowed fast, and her bosom heaved wildly. Then she rose to her feet, and approached him. "All is over!" she said, in a voice almost inarticulate with sobs. "Never—never—will I trouble your Majesty more. Your will shall be now as ever my law. Eternal silence shall cover my justly merited sufferings. I have nothing more to say. Permit me to retire." She turned and left the room; her heart was broken. Bossuet was her director. To him she applied for counsel. She told him that her very soul yearned for a convent. Bossuet questioned her,—her passionate remorse, her penitence, her courage, her resignation touched him deeply. She seemed to be purified from all earthly stain. Bossuet advised her to take six months to consider her vocation, during which time she was to speak to no one of her project. La Vallière bowed her head and obeyed. At the termination of the time, she publicly declared her intention of becoming a Carmelite. The King received this announcement with some show of feeling. He sent Lauzun to her, and offered to make her abbess of the richest convent in France. He entreated her not to expose her feeble health to the austerities of so severe an order. La Vallière replied that her resolution was unalterable. Before leaving the Hôtel Biron she asked for a private audience of the Queen. It was granted. With a veil over her face, and dressed in the dark robes of the order which she was about to enter, a hempen cord around her waist, to which hung a rosary and cross, she entered the Queen's private apartments at Versailles. Maria Theresa was alone. La Vallière raised her veil, her face was moist with tears, she tottered forward with difficulty and sank upon her knees. "My royal mistress," said she, in a faint voice, "I come to crave your pardon. Oh, Madame, do not, I implore you, repulse me. Alas! if I have sinned I have suffered. Suffered—oh, so bitterly, so long! In a few hours I shall be forgotten within a convent." The Queen, a woman of the most kindly and womanly feelings, was deeply affected.