"Oh! sire, something which is greater than and superior to kings even--the world and public opinion. Reflect for a moment; you cannot love a woman who has been ignominiously driven away--love one, whom your mother has stained with suspicion; one, whom your sister has threatened with disgrace; such a woman, indeed, would be unworthy of you." "Unworthy! one who belongs to me?" "Yes, sire, precisely on that account; from the very moment she belongs to you, the character of your mistress renders her unworthy." "You are right, Louise, every shade of delicacy of feeling is yours. Very well, you shall not be exiled." "Ah! from the tone in which you speak, you have not heard Madame, that is very clear." "I will appeal from her to my mother." "Again, sire, you have not seen your mother." "She, also! poor Louise! every one's hand, then, is against you." "Yes, yes, poor Louise, who was already bending beneath the fury of the storm, when you arrived and crushed her beneath the weight of your displeasure." "Oh! forgive me." "You will not, I know, be able to make either of them yield; believe me, the evil cannot be repaired, for I will not allow you to use violence, or to exercise your authority." "Very well, Louise, to prove to you how fondly I love you, I will do one thing, I will see Madame; I will make her revoke her sentence, I will compel her to do so." "Compel? Oh! no, no." "True; you are right. I will bend her." Louise shook her head. "I will entreat her, if it be necessary," said Louis. "Will you believe in my affection after that?" Louise drew herself up. "Oh, never, never, shall you humiliate yourself on my account; sooner, a thousand times, would I die." Louis reflected, his features assumed a dark expression. "I will love as much as you have loved; I will suffer as keenly as you have suffered; this shall be my expiation in your eyes. Come, mademoiselle, put aside these paltry considerations; let us show ourselves as great as our sufferings, as strong as our affection for each other." And, as he said this, he took her in his arms, and encircled her waist with both his hands, saying, "My own love! my own dearest and best-beloved, follow me." She made a final effort, in which she concentrated--no longer all her firmness of will, for that had long since been overcome, but all her physical strength. "No!" she replied, weakly, "no! no! I should die from shame." "No! you shall return like a queen. No one knows of your having left--except, indeed, D'Artagnan." "He has betrayed me, then?" "In what way?" "He promised me faithfully--" "I promised not to say anything to the king," said D'Artagnan, putting in his head through the half-opened door, "and I kept my word, I was speaking to M. de Saint-Aignan, and it was not my fault, if the king overheard me; was it, sire?" "It is quite true," said the king, "forgive him." La Valliere smiled, and held out her small white hand to the musketeer.