“Madame de la Motte Valois.”
“That intriguer!” cried the king.
“Diable!” said the count; “she will be difficult to interrogate: she is cunning.”
“We will be as cunning as she,” said M. de Crosne.
“I do not like such people about the queen,” said Louis; “she is so good that all the beggars crowd round her.”
“Madame de la Motte is a true Valois,” said the princess.
“However that may be, I will not see her here. I prefer depriving myself of the pleasure of hearing the queen’s innocence confirmed, to doing that.”
“But you must see her, sire,” said the queen, entering at that moment, pale with anger, beautiful with a noble indignation. “It is not now for you to say, ‘I do, or I do not wish to see her.’ She is a witness from whom the intelligence of my accusers,” said she, looking at her brother-in-law, “and the justice of my judges,” turning to the king and M. de Crosne, “must draw the truth. I, the accused, demand that she be heard.”
“Madame,” said the king, “we will not do Madame de la Motte the honor of sending for her to give evidence either for or against you. I cannot stake your honor against the veracity of this woman.”
“You need not send for her, she is here.”