Meanwhile, La Vallière, somewhat recovered from her swoon, sits alone beside a narrow window which overlooks the convent garden. She feels dull and oppressed; her eyes are dazed; her head is heavy. The perfect silence around her, the homely little cell looking into a peaceful garden, full of herbs and vegetables for the service of the convent, in one corner a grove of cypress-trees, which overtops the high walls that encircle it, is all new and strange to her. She seems to have passed into another world. She remembers but indistinctly all that has happened; she has almost forgotten how she came there. A pensive melancholy paralyses her senses. She is very weak and helpless; her brain is still confused. It is all very strange. She cannot collect her thoughts, but over all the mists of memory, plain and distinct, rise a face and form dear to her beyond life. Suddenly a sound of approaching footsteps awakens the echoes of the long corridor leading to the cell. As well as steps there is a confused hum of many persons talking. At first she listens vaguely; then, as the sounds grow nearer, she springs to her feet. A sound has struck upon her ear—a sound sweeter than music. It is the King's voice! The door is flung open, and Louis—his handsome face flushed with excitement, his eyes beaming with tenderness—stands before her. "Come," he says softly, whispering into her ear, and pressing her cold hand within both his own, "come, my beloved, you have nothing in common with this dreary place. I am here to carry you away. Fear no one; I will protect you—I will glory in protecting you. Rise, my Louise, and follow me." The Carmelite sisters stand peeping in at the door. The Superior alone has followed his Majesty into the cell. Some moments pass before Louise commands her voice to speak; at last, in a scarcely audible whisper, and trembling all over, she says— "Sire,——" then, not daring to meet the King's impassioned glance, she pauses; "Sire," she repeats, "I did not come here of my own accord. I was obliged to leave. My remaining at Saint-Germain offended her Majesty and other great personages—" she stops again, overcome by the recollection of the scene with the Queen and the Duchesse d'Orléans—"personages, Sire, whom I dare not—I _could_ not offend." Her soft face is suffused with a blush of anguish; she hangs down her head. "I was sent away, Sire; it was not my wish to go—indeed it was not my wish!" she adds, in a voice so low and tremulous that Louis could not have heard what she said had he not bent down his ear close to her white lips. "Then you shall return, dearest, for mine. I am master, and my wish is law. I care nothing for 'august personages'; they shall learn to obey me—the sooner the better." "But, Sire, I cannot be the cause of strife. The Queen-mother and Madame have dismissed me; and they were right," she added in a very faint voice. "I dare not offend them by my presence, after——" She stops, and can say no more.