“Here that she gave the rose?” And the queen, fatigued and wearied with waiting and disappointment leaned against the tree, and covered her face with her hands, but Charny could see the tears stealing through. At last she raised her head:
“Sir,” said she, “I am condemned. I promised to prove to you to-day that I was calumniated; God does not permit it, and I submit. I have done what no other woman, not to say queen, would have done. What a queen! who cannot reign over one heart, who cannot obtain the esteem of one honest man. Come, sir, give me your arm, if you do not despise me too much.”
“Oh, madame!” cried he, falling at her feet, “if I were only an unhappy man who loves you, could you not pardon me?”
“You!” cried she, with a bitter laugh, “you love me! and believe me infamous!”
“Oh, madame!”
“You accuse me of giving roses, kisses, and love. No, sir, no falsehoods! you do not love me.”
“Madame, I saw these phantoms. Pity me, for I am on the rack.”
She took his hands. “Yes, you saw, and you think it was I. Well, if here under this same tree, you at my feet, I press your hands, and say to you, ‘M, de Charny, I love you, I have loved, and shall love no one else in this world, may God pardon me’—will that convince you? Will you believe me then?” As she spoke, she came so close to him that he felt her breath on his lips. “Oh!” cried Charny, “now I am ready to die.”
“Give me your arm,” said she, “and teach me where they went, and where she gave the rose,”—and she took from her bosom a rose and held it to him. He took it and pressed it to his heart.
“Then,” continued she, “the other gave him her hand to kiss.”