The searching glance of the king alarmed Louise; his mocking words bewildered her, and she was incapable of reply.
She bowed silently, and allowed herself to be conducted to the divan.
“Sit down, and let us chat awhile,” said the king. “You know I hate the noise of a feast, and love to retire into some corner, unnoticed and unseen. I had no sooner discovered the fair Louise under this charming costume, than I knew I had found good company. I ordered Pollnitz to seek out for us some quiet spot, where we might converse freely. Commence, therefore.”
“Of what shall I speak, your majesty?” said Louise, confused and frightened. She knew well that the king had not found her by chance, but had sought her with a determined purpose.
“Oh! that is a question whose naivete reminds me of the little Louise Schwerin of earlier days. Well, let us speak on that subject which interests most deeply all who know you; let us speak of your happiness. You sigh. Have you already paid your tribute? Do you realize the fleetness of all earthly bliss?”
“Ah! your majesty, an unhappy marriage is the most bitter offering that can be made to experience,” sighed Madame von Kliest. “My life was indeed wretched until released by your kindness from that bondage.”
“Ah, yes, it is true you are divorced. When and upon whom will you now bestow this small, white hand?”
Louise looked up astonished. “What!” she stammered, confused, “your majesty means—”
“That you will certainly marry again. As beautiful a lady as you will always be surrounded by lovers, and I sincerely hope that you will marry. You should go forward as an example to my brothers, your youthful playmates, and I will tell my brother Henry that marriage is not so bad a thing, as the beautiful Madame von Kleist has tried it for the second time.”
“I doubt very much, sire,” said Louise, timidly, “if the example of so insignificant a person would have the desired effect upon the prince.”