st woman in all
France, one or the other must yield a point. He felt that it was for
him to do so, and yet it did not come kindly to his imperious nature.

"There is nothing to be gained, madame," said he, "by using words which
are neither seemly for your tongue nor for my ears. You will do me the
justice to confess that where I might command I am now entreating, and
that instead of ordering you as my subject, I am persuading you as my
friend."

"Oh, you show too much consideration, sire! Our relations of twenty
years or so can scarce suffice to explain such forbearance from you.
I should indeed be grateful that you have not set your archers of the
guard upon me, or marched me from the palace between a file of your
musketeers. Sire, how can I thank you for this forbearance?"
She curtsied low, with her face set in a mocking smile.

"Your words are bitter, madame."

"My heart is bitter, sire."

"Nay, Francoise, be reasonable, I implore you. We have both left our
youth behind."

"The allusion to my years comes gratefully from your lips."

"Ah, you distort my words. Then I shall say no more. You may not see
me again, madame. Is there no question which you would wish to ask me
before I go?"

"Good God!" she cried; "is this a man? Has it a heart? Are these the
lips which have told me so often that he loved me? Are these the eyes
which have looked so fondly into mine? Can you then thrust away a woman
whose life has been yours as you put away the St. Germain palace when a
more showy one was ready for you? And this is the end of all those
vows, those sweet whispers, those persuasions, those promises--This!"

"Nay, madame, this is painful to both of us."

"Pain! Where is the pain in your face? I see anger in it because I
have dared to speak truth; I see joy in it because you feel that your
vile task is done. But where is the pain? Ah, when I am gone all will
be so easy to you--will it not? You can go back then to your
governess--"

"Madame!"

"Yes, yes, you cannot frighten me! What do I care for all that you can
do! But I know all. Do not think that I am blind. And so you would
even have married her! You, the descendant of St. Louis, and she the
Scarron widow, the poor drudge whom in charity I took into my household!
Ah, how your courtiers will smile! how the little poets will scribble!
how the wits will whisper! You do not hear of these things, of course,
but they are a little painful for