"Ah, Sire," sobs she with genuine sorrow, "is this the return you make for my too great devotion to your Majesty's salvation? I, who have led you step by step towards that Deity, whose wrath your transgressions had so justly incensed? Is it for this I have rescued you from the flames of Purgatory—the fire of everlasting Hell?"
Louis turns ghastly pale; a nervous tremor seizes him. He dare not look Madame de Maintenon in the face, for her piercing black eyes glare upon him, and seem to scan his inmost soul. He dare not interrupt her; he must listen to all she has to say, so great is her empire over him.
She continues:—
"Am I sunk so low in your esteem that you mention me in the same breath with a Montespan, a Fontanges? Alas, I have soiled my good name to serve you, and is this then my recompense?"
As she speaks, in a hard resolute voice, her reproachful eyes rivet themselves upon Louis.
"Do you forget, Sire, that I am the woman whom your sainted Queen specially esteemed? On whose bosom she expired? To whom, as she drew her dying breath, she gave this ring?"
She takes from her finger the nuptial ring which Maria Theresa had given her. It was a single diamond of remarkable brilliancy. After contemplating it for an instant she drops it on the floor, midway between herself and Louis, then, with a stately gesture, she rises to depart.
The impress of many passions is visible on the countenance of the aged monarch. Love and pride are written there. Pride is on his broad forehead—in the carriage of his head—in his arched and bushy eyebrows—in his still erect form—in the action of his hands and arms, as they grasp the chair on which he sits upright. Pride, intense, inflexible pride. But his dark eyes glow with passion. Those eyes devour Madame de Maintenon, as she stands erect before him, her eyes turned towards heaven, the ring at her feet. His mouth, around which deep wrinkles gather, works—as did his father's—with a nervous spasm; but the parted lips seem to pant for the beloved object before him. At length he raises himself slowly from his chair—stoops—picks up the nuptial ring of his first wife—kisses it, and places it on the finger of Madame de Maintenon.
"Mon amie," he says, with solemnity, "do not leave me. As your husband I will defend you."