Charlotte colours, and, not daring to trust her voice in reply, shakes her head and bends her eyes on the ground.
Marguerite, too much occupied with her own thoughts to take much heed of her friend’s emotion, pats her fondly on the cheek, and proceeds—
“You are dull, ma mie; amuse yourself like me, now with one, then with another. Be constant to none. Regard your own interest and inclination only. But leave Guise alone; he is my passion. His proud reserve pleases me. His stately devotion touches me. He is a king among men. I love to torment the hero of Jarnac and Moncontour. He is jealous, too—jealous of the very air I breathe; but in time, that may become wearisome. I never thought of that,” adds she, musing.
“Your highness will marry soon,” says Charlotte, rising and facing the Princess, “and then Guise must console himself——”
“With you, par exemple, belle des belles? You need not blush so, Charlotte, I read your secret. But, ma mie, I mean to marry Henri de Guise myself, even if my mother and the King, my brother, refuse their consent. They may beat me—imprison me—or banish me; I will still marry Henri de Guise.”
“Her Majesty will never consent to this alliance, madame.”
“You are jealous, Charlotte, or you would not say so. Why should I not marry him, when my sister-in-law, the young Queen of Scots, is of the House of Lorraine?”
“Yes, madame, but the case is altogether different; she is a Queen-regnant. The house of Lorraine is already too powerful.”
“Ah!” exclaims the volatile Marguerite, starting up, “I love freedom; freedom in life, freedom in love. Charlotte, you say truly, I shall never be constant.”
“Then, alas, for your husband! He must love you, and you will break his heart.”