Really,
the absence of the prince has been most fortunate for you. You might
have whispered all kinds of foolish things to my weak heart. The prince
is young, handsome, and amiable, and it amuses him to win the love of
fair ladies. Had you seen him more frequently, it is possible he might
have succeeded with poor Louise, and the little flirtation we carried on
together would have resulted in earnest love on my part. That would have
been a great misfortune. Laugh and look joyous, beautiful eyes, you have
saved me from an unrequited love. You should not weep, but rejoice. Look
around and find another suitor, who would, perhaps, love me so fondly
that he could not forget me in a few days; whose love I might return
with ardor.' This, my prince, is the sermon I preached to my eyes when
they grew dim with tears."

"And was your sermon effective?" said the prince, with pale, trembling
lips. "Did your eyes, those obedient slaves, look around and find
another lover?"

"Ah! your highness, how can you doubt it? My eyes are indeed my slaves,
and must obey. Yes, they looked and found the happiness they sought."

"What happiness," asked Henry, apparently quite tranquil, but he pressed
his hand nervously on the chair that stood by him--"what happiness did
your eyes find?"

Louise looked at him and sighed deeply. "The happiness," she said, and
against her will her voice trembled and faltered--"the happiness that a
true, earnest love alone can give--which I have received joyously into
my heart as a gift from God."

The prince laughed aloud, but his face had a wild, despairing
expression, and his hands clasped the chair more firmly.

"I do not understand your holy, pious words. What do they mean? What do
you wish to say?"

"They mean that I now love so truly and so earnestly that I have
promised to become the wife of the man I love," said Louise, with forced
gayety.

The prince uttered a wild cry, and raised his hands as if to curse the
one who had wounded him so painfully.

"If this is true," he said, in a deep, hollow voice--"if this is true,
I despise, I hate you, and they are right who call you a heartless
coquette."

"Ah, my prince, you insult me," cried Louise.

"I insult you!" he said, with a wild laugh; "verily, I believe this
woman has the effrontery to reproach me--I who believed in and defended
her against every accusation--I that had the courage to love and trust,
when all others distrusted and despised her. Ye