It was now Marie’s turn to hang her head. “Then I must bid you adieu forever,” said she. “You know that I am being exiled; you know that I am going to be buried alive; you know still more that they want to marry me off, too.” Louis became very pale, and placed his hand upon his heart. “If I had thought that my life only had been at stake, I have been so persecuted that I might have yielded; but I thought yours was concerned, my dear sire, and I stood out for the sake of preserving your happiness.” “Oh, yes! my happiness, my treasure!” murmured the king, more gallantly than passionately, perhaps. “The cardinal might have yielded,” said Marie, “if you had addressed yourself to him, if you had pressed him. For the cardinal to call the king of France his nephew! do you not perceive, sire? He would have made war even for that honor; the cardinal, assured of governing alone, under the double pretext of having brought up the king and given his niece to him in marriage—the cardinal would have fought all antagonists, overcome all obstacles. Oh, sire! I can answer for that. I am a woman, and I see clearly into everything where love is concerned.” These words produced a strange effect upon the king. Instead of heightening his passion, they cooled it. He stopped, and said hastily,— “What is to be said, mademoiselle? Everything has failed.” “Except your will, I trust, my dear sire?” “Alas!” said the king, coloring, “have I a will?” “Oh!” said Mademoiselle de Mancini mournfully, wounded by that expression. “The king has no will but that which policy dictates, but that which reasons of state impose upon him.” “Oh! it is because you have no love,” cried Mary; “if you loved, sire, you would have a will.” On pronouncing these words, Mary raised her eyes to her lover, whom she saw more pale and more cast down than an exile who is about to quit his native land forever. “Accuse me,” murmured the king, “but do not say I do not love you.” A long silence followed these words, which the young king had pronounced with a perfectly true and profound feeling. “I am unable to think that to-morrow, and after to-morrow, I shall see you no more; I cannot think that I am going to end my sad days at a distance from Paris; that the lips of an old man, of an unknown, should touch that hand which you hold within yours; no, in truth, I cannot think of all that, my dear sire, without having my poor heart burst with despair.” And Marie de Mancini did shed floods of tears. On his part, the king, much affected, carried his handkerchief to his mouth, and stifled a sob.