“I am innocent of everything your majesty supposes. Oh, madame! you are a witness of my despair. I love, I respect your majesty so much.”
“It would be far better not to respect me at all,” said the queen, with a chilling irony of manner. “It would be far better if you were not innocent. Do you presume to suppose that I should be satisfied simply to leave you unpunished if you had committed the fault?”
“Oh, madame! you are killing me.”
“No acting, if you please, or I will precipitate the denouement of this play; leave the room; return to your own apartment, and I trust my lesson may be of service to you.”
“Madame!” said La Valliere to the Duchess d’Orleans, whose hands she seized in her own, “do you, who are so good, intercede for me?”
“I!” replied the latter, with an insulting joy, “I—good!—Ah, mademoiselle, you think nothing of the kind;” and with a rude, hasty gesture she repulsed the young girl’s grasp.
La Valliere, instead of giving way, as from her extreme pallor and her tears the two princesses possibly expected, suddenly resumed her calm and dignified air; she bowed profoundly, and left the room.
“Well!” said Anne of Austria to Madame, “do you think she will begin again?”
“I always suspect those gentle, patient characters,” replied Madame. “Nothing is more full of courage than a patient heart, nothing more self-reliant than a gentle spirit.”
“I feel I may almost venture to assure you she will think twice before she looks at the god Mars again.”