esented them to me? Was there not the whole court, indeed,
to choose from?"

"I assure you, madame," said the comte, respectfully, "that if any one
heard you speak in this manner, if any one were to see how red your eyes
are, and, Heaven forgive me, to see, too, that earth trembling on your
eyelids, it would be said that your royal highness was jealous."

"Jealous!" said the princess, haughtily; "jealous of La Valliere!"

She expected to see De Guiche yield beneath her haughty gesture and her
proud tone; but he simply and boldly replied, "Jealous of La Valliere;
yes, madame."

"Am I to suppose, monsieur," she stammered out, "that your object is to
insult me?"

"It is not possible, madame," replied the comte, slightly agitated, but
resolved to master that fiery nature.

"Leave the room," said the princess, thoroughly exasperated; De Guiche's
coolness and silent respect having made her completely lose her temper.

De Guiche fell back a step, bowed slowly, but with great respect, drew
himself up, looking as white as his lace cuffs, and in a voice slightly
trembling, said, "It was hardly worth while to have hurried here to be
subjected to this unmerited disgrace." And he turned away with hasty
steps.

He had scarcely gone half a dozen paces when Madame darted like a
tigress after him, seized him by the cuff, and, making him turn round
again, said, trembling with passion as she did so, "The respect that you
pretend to have is more insulting than insult itself. Insult me, if you
please, but at least speak."

"And do you, madame," said the comte, gently, as he drew his sword,
"thrust this sword into my heart, rather than kill me by slow degrees."

At the look he fixed upon her--a look full of love, resolution, and
despair even--she knew how readily the comte, so outwardly calm in
appearance, would pass his sword through his own breast if she added
another word. She tore the blade from his hands, and pressing his arm
with a feverish impatience, which might pass for tenderness, said--

"Do not be too hard with me, comte. You see how I am suffering, and you
have no pity for me."

Tears, which were the last crisis of the attack, stifled her voice. As
soon as De Guiche saw her weep, he took her in his arms and carried her
to an armchair; in another moment she would have been suffocated from
suppressed passion.

"Oh, why," he murmured, as he knelt by her side, "why do you conceal
your troubles from me? Do you love an