"I assure you, madame," said the comte, respectfully, "that if any one heard you speak in this manner, if any one were to see how red your eyes are, and, Heaven forgive me, to see, too, that earth trembling on your eyelids, it would be said that your royal highness was jealous."
"Jealous!" said the princess, haughtily; "jealous of La Valliere!"
She expected to see De Guiche yield beneath her haughty gesture and her proud tone; but he simply and boldly replied, "Jealous of La Valliere; yes, madame."
"Am I to suppose, monsieur," she stammered out, "that your object is to insult me?"
"It is not possible, madame," replied the comte, slightly agitated, but resolved to master that fiery nature.
"Leave the room," said the princess, thoroughly exasperated; De Guiche's coolness and silent respect having made her completely lose her temper.
De Guiche fell back a step, bowed slowly, but with great respect, drew himself up, looking as white as his lace cuffs, and in a voice slightly trembling, said, "It was hardly worth while to have hurried here to be subjected to this unmerited disgrace." And he turned away with hasty steps.
He had scarcely gone half a dozen paces when Madame darted like a tigress after him, seized him by the cuff, and, making him turn round again, said, trembling with passion as she did so, "The respect that you pretend to have is more insulting than insult itself. Insult me, if you please, but at least speak."
"And do you, madame," said the comte, gently, as he drew his sword, "thrust this sword into my heart, rather than kill me by slow degrees."
At the look he fixed upon her—a look full of love, resolution, and despair even—she knew how readily the comte, so outwardly calm in appearance, would pass his sword through his own breast if she added another word. She tore the blade from his hands, and pressing his arm with a feverish impatience, which might pass for tenderness, said—