Louise could have shrieked with agony when she saw the tender smile with which he greeted her. Never had he appeared so handsome, so noble as at this moment, when she must resign him forever.
But there was no time to think of this, no time for complaints or regrets. He was there, he stood before her, offered both his hands, and greeted her with the tenderest words of love.
Louise had a stern part to play, and she dared not listen to her heart’s pleadings.
“Ah, my prince,” she said, with a laugh that sounded to herself like the wail of a lost soul—“ah, my prince, take care! we women are very credulous, and I might take your jesting words for truth.”
“I advise you to do so,” said the prince, happy and unconcerned. “Yes, Louise, I advise you to do so, for you know well that my jesting words have an earnest meaning. And now that we are alone, we will dispense with ceremony. You must justify yourself before a lover—a lover who is unfortunately very jealous. Yes, yes, Louise, that is my weakness; I do not deny it, I am jealous—jealous of all those who keep you from me, who prevent my receiving your letters.”
“My letters!” said Louise, astonished; “why should I have written letters to your highness? I do not believe it is the custom for ladies to write to gentlemen voluntarily. It has been two weeks since I received a letter from your highness.”
“Because it was impossible for my messenger to deliver them, Louise: you were so unapproachable, at least for me. But you must have known that my thoughts were always with you, that my heart pined for news and comfort from you.”
“Non, vraiment, I did not know it,” said Louise, laughingly.
“You did not know it?” asked Henry, wonderingly. “Well, what did you suppose?”
“I thought,” she said, carelessly—“I thought that Prince Henry had overcome or forgotten his little folly of the carnival.”