“Only that he is called monseigneur.”
The queen stamped her foot.
“Go on!” said she. “Tuesday I gave him a rose——”
“Wednesday you gave him your hands to kiss, and yesterday you went alone with him into the baths of Apollo, while your companion waited outside.”
“And you saw me?” said she, rising.
He lifted his hands to heaven, and cried, “I swear it!”
“Oh, he swears!”
“Yes. On Tuesday you wore your green dress, moirée, with gold; Wednesday, the dress with great blue and brown leaves; and yesterday, the same dress that you wore when I last kissed your hand. Oh, madame, I am ready to die with grief and shame while I repeat that, on my life, my honor, it was really you!”
“What can I say?” cried the queen dreadfully agitated. “If I swore, he would not believe me.”
Charny shook his head.