“No, Marie,” replied the king; “you see I do not.”
“I had so often been told, though, that as soon as we should
be separated you would no longer think of me.”
“Dear Marie, is it then to-day only that you have discovered
we are surrounded by people interested in deceiving us?”
“But, then, sire, this journey, this alliance with Spain?
They are going to marry you off!”
Louis hung his head. At the same time the officer could see
the eyes of Marie de Mancini shine in the sun with the
brilliancy of a dagger starting from its sheath. “And you
have done nothing in favor of our love?” asked the girl,
after a silence of a moment.
“Ah! mademoiselle, how could you believe that? I threw
myself at the feet of my mother; I begged her, I implored
her; I told her all my hopes of happiness were in you, I
even threatened —- ”
“Well?” asked Marie, eagerly.
“Well? the queen-mother wrote to the court of Rome, and
received as answer, that a marriage between us would have no
validity, and would be dissolved by the holy father. At
length, finding there was no hope for us, I requested to
have my marriage with the infanta at least delayed.”
“And yet that does not prevent your being on the road to
meet her?”
“How can I help it? To my prayers, to my supplications, to
my tears, I received no answer but reasons of state.”
“Well, well?”
“Well, what is to be done, mademoiselle, when so many wills
are leagued against me?”
It was now Marie’s turn to hang her head. “Then I must bid
you adieu for ever,” said she. “You know that I am being
exiled; you know that I am going to be buried alive; you
know still more that they want to marry me off, too.”
Louis became very pale, and placed his hand upon his heart.
“If I had thought that my life only had, been at stake, I
have been so persecuted that I might have yielded; but I
thought yours was concerned, my dear sire, and I stood out
for the sake of preserving your happiness. ”
“Oh, yes! my happiness, my treasure!” murmured the king,
more gallantly than passionately, perhaps.
“The cardinal might have yielded,” said Marie, “if you had
addressed yourself to him, if you had pressed him. For the
cardinal to call the king of France his nephew! do you not
perceive, sire? He would have made war even for that honor;
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the cardinal, assured of governing alone, under the double
pretext of having brought up the king and given his niece to
him in marriage — the cardinal would have fought all
antagonists, overcome all obstacles. Oh, sire! I can answer
for that. I am a woman, and I see clearly into everything
where love is concerned.”
These words produced a strange effect upon the king. Instead
of heightening his passion, they cooled it. He stopped, and
said hastily, —
“What is to be said, mademoiselle? Everything has failed.”
“Except your will, I trust, my dear sire?”
“Alas!” said the king, coloring, “have I a will?”
“Oh!” said Mademoiselle de Mancini mournfully, wounded by
that expression.
“The king has no will but that which policy dictates, but
that which reasons of state impose upon him.”
“Oh! it is because you have no love,” cried Mary; “if you
loved, sire, you would have a will.”
On pronouncing these words, Mary raised her eyes to her
lover, whom she saw more pale and more cast down than an
exile who is about to quit his native land forever. “Accuse
me,” murmured the king, “but do not say I do not love you.”
A long silence followed these words, which the young king
had pronounced with a perfectly true and profound feeling.
“I am unable to think that to-morrow, and after to-morrow, I
shall see you no more; I cannot think that I am going to end
my sad days at a distance from Paris; that the lips of an
old man, of an unknown, should touch that hand which you
hold within yours; no, in truth, I cannot think of all that,