"So then you feel you cannot keep a secret, Monsieur de la Mole?" said Marguerite in a soft voice as she stood leaning on the back of her chair, half hidden in the shadow of a thick tapestry and enjoying the felicity of easily reading his frank and open soul while remaining impenetrable herself.
"Madame," said La Mole, "I have a miserable disposition: I distrust myself, and the happiness of another gives me pain."
"Whose happiness?" asked Marguerite, smiling. "Ah, yes—the King of Navarre's! Poor Henry!"
"You see," cried La Mole, passionately, "he is happy."
"Happy?"
"Yes, for your majesty is sorry for him."
Marguerite crumpled up the silk of her purse and smoothed out the golden fringe.
"So then you decline to see the King of Navarre?" said she; "you have made up your mind; you are decided?"
"I fear I should be troublesome to his majesty just at the present time."
"But the Duc d'Alençon, my brother?"