nner, feeling persuaded that there was some
sort of affinity between Madame's sentiments and his own. In fact, every
one at court of any perception at all knew perfectly well the capricious
fancy and absurd despotism of the princess's singular character. Madame
had been flattered beyond all bounds by the king's attentions; she had
made herself talked about; she had inspired the queen with that mortal
jealousy which is the gnawing worm at the root of every woman's
happiness; Madame in a word, in her attempts to cure a wounded pride,
had found that her heart had become deeply and passionately attached. We
know what Madame had done to recall Raoul, who had been sent out of the
way by Louis XIV. Raoul did not know of her letter to Charles II.,
although D'Artagnan had guessed its contents. Who will undertake to
account for that seemingly inexplicable mixture of love and vanity, that
passionate tenderness of feeling, that prodigious duplicity of conduct?
No one can, indeed; not even the bad angel who kindles the love of
coquetry in the heart of woman. "Monsieur de Bragelonne," said the
princess, after a moment's pause, "have you returned satisfied?"

Bragelonne looked at Madame Henrietta, and seeing how pale she was, not
alone from what she was keeping back, but also from what she was burning
to say, said: "Satisfied! what is there for me to be satisfied or
dissatisfied about, madame?"

"But what are those things with which a man of your age and of your
appearance is usually either satisfied or dissatisfied?"

"How eager she is," thought Raoul, almost terrified; "what is it that
she is going to breathe into my heart?" and then, frightened at what she
might possibly be going to tell him, and wishing to put off the
opportunity of having everything explained which he had hitherto so
ardently wished for, yet had dreaded so much, he replied, "I left behind
me, madame, a dear friend in good health, and on my return I find him
very ill."

"You refer to M. de Guiche," replied Madame Henrietta, with the most
imperturbable self-possession; "I have heard he is a very dear friend of
yours."

"He is indeed, madame."

"Well, it is quite true he has been wounded; but he is better now. Oh!
M. de Guiche is not to be pitied," she said hurriedly; and then,
recovering herself, added, "But has he anything to complain of? Has he
complained of anything? Is there any cause of grief or sorrow that we
are not acquainted with?"

"I allude only