“Destin qui va m’unir d’une éternelle chaîne
A l’object de ma haîne—
Cruel destin, arrache de mon cœur
Une trop vive ardeur.”
“Fate which would rivet me with a perpetual chain
To the object of my deep disdain—
O, cruel fate! which would snatch from my poor worn heart
A passion full of ardour on my part.”
Puzzling over the meaning of this strange verse, the ladies beheld the Princess hastening to where they stood. With heightened colour she asked them: “What are you doing here? Why are you not with the Queen of Sicily?” Then effacing the writing with her foot, she added: “I cannot think why I did not efface those words; I have committed an indiscretion. But take note I did not name the unhappy person who wrote them.” The romance went on unchecked. Dunois, still under age, very adroitly contrived to remove the suspicions his conduct had aroused in the mind of Queen Yolande, and Marie took dutifully and silently the maternal reproofs. Then came the death of Charles VI., and Princess Marie was proclaimed Queen of France. With more than a sigh,—almost a broken heart,—she set herself to play her part as a virtuous woman and as a loyal spouse. Dunois did not renounce his devotion to the Queen, and she never forgot the love she had borne him—a Prince the very antithesis of her husband, remarkable for personal beauty and mental accomplishment, just the sort of man all women love. Daily she poured out her soul before the altar of her private chapel for strength to be true and faithful, and victory was hers; but it cost her dear.
“Car en vertueuse souffrance,