"Calumnies, sire!" cried she.
"What calumnies?" replied he, with the most natural air possible. "Do you find any calumny in it? It is a passage from my brother's letter—'Margota cum Turennio conveniunt in castello nomine Loignac!'—Decidedly I must get this letter translated."
"Leave this comedy, sire," said Marguerite, tremblingly, "and tell me at once what you want from me."
"Well, I wish, ma mie, that you should separate Fosseuse from the other girls, and send her a discreet doctor; your own, for example."
"Ah! I see what it is," cried the queen, "Fosseuse, the paragon, is near her accouchement."
"I do not say so, ma mie; it is you who affirm it."
"It is so, monsieur; your insinuating tone, your false humility, prove it to me. But there are sacrifices that no man should ask of his wife. Take care of Fosseuse yourself, sire; it is your business, and let the trouble fall on the guilty, not on the innocent."
"The guilty! Ah! that makes me think of the letter again."
"How so?"
"Guilty is 'nocens,' is it not?"