A trembling convulsed her bosom and passed over her entire body, rustling the violet silk gown which she wore in half mourning. The Duke suppressed his annoyance. His wife's gloomy disposition had, from the first days of their marriage de convenance been a killjoy—that marriage, consummated for political reasons and in compliance with the dying request of her parents. Somewhat of warmth, somewhat of human tenderness would have mingled those two souls, had not constraint been characteristic of both.
"Thérèse," he replied, "in every life there is a cup of bitterness. Each thinks that his chalice contains the most gall. Each knows but his own sorrow. God has tried us indeed, but have courage! I come with another sorrow to your heart already bleeding. Your strength must sustain you."
"Of what do you speak?" she asked, endeavoring to seem calm.
"Of the impostors, who have, in succession, exploited favorable circumstances in personating the unhappy prince who perished in captivity."
A deathlike pallor spread over her face.
"This is the reason you have come?" she murmured.
"Yes, this is the reason. The iniquitous farce grows of sufficient consequence to threaten the throne."
"Be explicit," she said, recovering command of herself.
"I am come for that purpose," he replied. "The king has entrusted me with messages for you. He is fearful lest these spurious pretensions leave an ill effect upon you."
The Duchess drew a handkerchief across her eyes. Her husband and cousin continued: