“No, monsieur. Explain yourself, and prove to me, if you can, that you are in your right senses.”
“Oh! why is not Madame de la Motte here? she could aid me to reawaken, if not your majesty’s attachment, at least your memory.”
“My attachment! my memory!”
“Ah, madame,” cried he, growing excited, “spare me, I beg. It is free to you to love no longer, but do not insult me.”
“Ah, mon Dieu!” cried the queen, turning pale: “hear what this man says.”
“Well, madame,” said he, getting still more excited, “I think I have been sufficiently discreet and reserved not to be ill-treated. But I should have known that when a queen says, ‘I will not any longer,’ it is as imperious as when a woman says, ‘I will.’”
“But, sir, to whom, or when, have I said either the one or the other?”
“Both, to me.”
“To you! You are a liar, M. de Rohan. A coward, for you calumniate a woman; and a traitor, for you insult the queen.”
“And you are a heartless woman and a faithless queen. You led me to feel for you the most ardent love. You let me drink my fill of hopes——”