she acted the part of
injured innocence so perfectly that the poor old man would apologize
for the wrongs she invented, and try to coax her into a good humor.
Thereupon she would weep more bitterly than ever, grow hysterical, and
require to be carried off by her women, when recovery and composure
were usually instantaneous. Of course the court gossips soon carried
stories of the quick recoveries to the king, and, when he spoke to
Mary of them, she put on her injured air again and turned the tables
by upbraiding him for believing such calumnies about her, who was so
good to him and loved him so dearly.

I tell you it is a waste of time to fight against that assumption of
injured innocence--that impregnable feminine redoubt--and when the
enemy once gets fairly behind it one might as well raise the siege. I
think it the most amusing, exasperating and successful defense and
counter attack in the whole science of war, and every woman has it at
her finger-tips, ready for immediate use upon occasion.

Mary would often pout for days together and pretend illness. Upon one
occasion she kept the king waiting at her door all the morning, while
she, having slipped through the window, was riding with some of the
young people in the forest. When she returned--through the window--she
went to the door and scolded the poor old king for keeping her waiting
penned up in her room all the morning. And he apologized.

She changed the dinner hour to noon in accordance with the English
custom, and had a heavy supper at night, when she would make the king
gorge himself with unhealthful food and coax him "to drink as much as
brother Henry," which invariably resulted in Louis de Valois finding
lodgment under the table. This amused the whole court, except a few
old cronies and physicians, who, of course, were scandalized beyond
measure. She took the king on long rides with her on cold days, and
would jolt him almost to death, and freeze him until the cold tears
streamed down his poor pinched nose, making him feel like a half
animated icicle, and wish that he were one in fact.

At night she would have her balls, and keep him up till morning
drinking and dancing, or trying to dance, with her, until his poor old
heels, and his head, too, for that matter, were like to fall off; then
she would slip away from him and lock herself in her room. December,
say I, let May alone; she certainly will kill you. Despite which sound
advice, I doubt not December