ovingly. Does that please you better? But there can be serious
things in love, and especially in the love of a queen."

"Then--let us talk of serious things; but on condition that your majesty
will not be vexed at the lighter things I have to say to you."

"I shall be vexed only at one thing, La Mole, and that is if you address
me as 'madame' or 'your majesty.' For you, my beloved, I am just
Marguerite."

"Yes, Marguerite! Yes, Margarita! Yes, my pearl!" cried the young man,
devouring the queen with his eyes.

"Yes, that is right," said Marguerite. "So you are jealous, my fine
gentleman?"

"Oh! unreasonably."

"Still?"

"Madly, Marguerite."

"Jealous of whom? Come!"

"Of everyone."

"But really?"

"Of the king first."

"I should think after what you had seen and heard you might be easy on
that point."

"Of this Monsieur de Mouy, whom I saw this morning for the first time,
and whom this evening I find so far advanced in his intimacy with you."

"Monsieur de Mouy?"

"Yes."

"Who gave you such ideas about Monsieur de Mouy?"

"Listen! I recognized him from his figure, from the color of his hair,
from a natural feeling of hatred. He is the one who was with Monsieur
d'Alencon this morning."

"Well, what connection has that with me?"

"Monsieur d'Alencon is your brother. It is said that you are very fond
of him. You may have confided to him a vague feeling of your heart, and,
according to the custom at court, he has aided your wish by admitting
Monsieur de Mouy to your apartment. Now, what I do not understand is
how I was fortunate enough to find the king here at the same time. But
in any case, madame, be frank with me. In default of other sentiment, a
love like mine has the right to demand frankness in return. See, I
prostrate myself at your feet. If what you have felt for me is but a
passing fancy, I will give you back your trust, your promise, your love;
I will give back to Monsieur d'Alencon his kind favors and my post of
gentleman, and I will go and seek death at the siege of La Rochelle, if
love does not kill me before I have gone as far as that."

Marguerite listened smilingly to these charming words, watching La
Mole's graceful gestures, then leaning her beautiful dreamy head on her
feverish hand:

"You love me?" she asked.

"Oh, madame! more than life, more than safety, more than all; but you,
you--you do not love me."

"Poor fool!" she murmured.

"Ah, yes, madame," cried La Mole, st