“And is that enough for you? Do you love him so much, then?”
“Yes, I love him!” said Jane Douglas, with a sigh of pain, as she fastened the rosette on the queen’s shoulder.
“And now, Jane, go and announce to the master of ceremonies that I am ready, as soon as the king wishes it, to resort to the gallery.” Lady Jane turned to leave the chamber. But, already upon the threshold, she returned once more.
“Forgive me, queen, for venturing to make one more request of you. You have, however, just shown yourself too much the noble and true friend of earlier days for me not to venture one more request.”
“Now, what is it, poor Jane?”
“I have intrusted my secret not to the queen, but to Catharine Parr, the friend of my youth. Will she keep it, and betray to none my disgrace and humiliation?”
“My word for that, Jane. Nobody but God and ourselves shall ever know what we have spoken.”
Lady Jane humbly kissed her hand and murmured a few words of thanks; then she left the queen’s room to go in quest of the master of ceremonies.
In the queen’s anteroom she stopped a moment, and leaned against the wall, exhausted, and as it were crushed. Nobody was here who could observe and listen to her. She had no need to smile, no need to conceal, beneath a calm and equable appearance, all those tempestuous and despairing feelings which were working within. She could allow her hatred and her resentment, her rage and her despair, to pour forth in words and gestures, in tears and imprecations, in sobs and sighs. She could fall on her knees and beseech God for grace and mercy, and call on the devil for revenge and destruction.
When she had so done, she arose, and her demeanor resumed its wonted cold and calm expression. Only her cheeks were still paler; only a still gloomier fire darted from her eyes, and a scornful smile played about her thin, compressed lips.