“Confess, sire, that the world is very wicked. Is it possible that a brother and sister cannot converse together, or take pleasure in each other’s company, without giving rise to remarks and suspicions? For indeed, sire, we are doing no harm, and have no intention of doing any.” And she looked at the king with that proud yet provoking glance that kindles desire in the coldest and wisest of men. “No!” sighed the king, “that is true.” “You know very well, sire, that if it were to continue, I should be obliged to make a disturbance. Do you decide upon our conduct, and say whether it has, or has not, been perfectly correct.” “Oh, certainly--perfectly correct.” “Often alone together,--for we delight in the same things,--we might possibly be led away into error, but _have_ we been? I regard you as a brother, and nothing more.” The king frowned. She continued: “Your hand, which often meets my own, does not excite in me that agitation and emotion which is the case with those who love each other, for instance--” “Enough,” said the king, “enough, I entreat you. You have no pity--you are killing me.” “What is the matter?” “In fact, then, you distinctly say you experience nothing when near me.” “Oh, sire! I don’t say that--my affection--” “Enough, Henrietta, I again entreat you. If you believe me to be marble, as you are, undeceive yourself.” “I do not understand you, sire.” “Very well,” said the king, casting down his eyes. “And so our meetings, the pressure of each other’s hand, the looks we have exchanged--Yes, yes; you are right, and I understand your meaning,” and he buried his face in his hands. “Take care, sire,” said Madame, hurriedly, “Monsieur de Saint-Aignan is looking at you.” “Of course,” said Louis, angrily; “never even the shadow of liberty! never any sincerity in my intercourse with any one! I imagine I have found a friend, who is nothing but a spy; a dearer friend, who is only a--sister!” Madame was silent, and cast down her eyes. “My husband is jealous,” she murmured, in a tone of which nothing could equal its sweetness and charm. “You are right,” exclaimed the king, suddenly. “You see,” she said, looking at him in a manner that set his heart on fire, “you are free, you are not suspected, the peace of your house is not disturbed.” “Alas,” said the king, “as yet you know nothing, for the queen is jealous.” “Maria Theresa!” “Stark mad with jealousy! Monsieur’s jealousy arises from hers; she was weeping and complaining to my mother, and was reproaching us for those bathing parties, which have made me so happy.” “And me too,” answered Madame, by a look.