"Remain always," murmurs the King, contemplating her fondly; "my life—my happiness—my very being is bound up in you. Deprived of you, I may again fall into deadly sin. Do not forsake me." These last words are spoken in a whisper, full of tenderness. He rises from his arm-chair and approaches her. Madame de Maintenon looks at him sharply; then moves her chair backwards. Louis stops midway and gazes at her timidly. He returns to his arm-chair, and sighs profoundly. "Impossible, your Majesty," replies the Marquise stiffly, arranging the folds of her dress. "I repeat, my task is done. The Court is reformed, your salvation secure. But, while benefiting others, I have exposed myself to calumny. Sire, I am called your mistress. I am branded as the successor of Madame de Montespan." "What villain has dared to assail your immaculate virtue? Tell me who he is, and there is no punishment he shall not suffer," and the King's face flushes scarlet. There is the old look of command upon his brow—the old decision in his manner. "Sire," answers Madame de Maintenon quietly, "such passion is unnecessary. I am not worthy of it. I have already done all that is needful, let me go. I can serve you no longer." "You are worthy, madame, of all that a man—that a monarch can lay at your feet," cries Louis with enthusiasm. A cynical smile plays upon her full-lipped mouth while the King speaks. "I am at least worthy of respect, Sire. The suspicion of impurity is intolerable. I cannot bear it; I must go." "You are too hurried, dearest madame," returns the King; "too impressionable. Whatever observations may be aroused by our intimacy, and my well-known attachment to you, they should not annoy you. Your character is an all-sufficient defence." "Ah, Sire, this is not sufficient. I must fly from even the semblance of suspicion. You are a single man, I am a widow. I must leave Versailles. Your Majesty cannot wish me to remain, to become an object of contempt." "Contempt? Impossible!" exclaims Louis abruptly. "No woman whom I, the King of France, have loved, has ever suffered contempt." No sooner were these words out of his mouth, than the King had reason to repent having uttered them. The outraged prude burst into a flood of tears. After all, was her crafty scheming to be in vain? Would Louis not understand that as a wife—and a wife only—she would remain? "Ah, Sire," sobs she with genuine sorrow, "is this the return you make for my too great devotion to your Majesty's salvation? I, who have led you step by step towards that Deity, whose wrath your transgressions had so justly incensed? Is it for this I have rescued you from the flames of Purgatory—the fire of everlasting Hell?" Louis turns ghastly pale; a nervous tremor seizes him. He dare not look Madame de Maintenon in the face, for her piercing black eyes glare upon him, and seem to scan his inmost soul. He dare not interrupt her; he must listen to all she has to say, so great is her empire over him.