"We are bound to accede," replied the queen, forgetting her embarrassment of the moment before. "Let us try to recall the happy days of our childhood. Let us play blindman's buff until the sun rises and transforms the children of the night once more into earnest and reasoning mortals."
CHAPTER CII.
THE FOLLOWING DAY.
The queen was alone in her cabinet, which she had not left since she had seen the sun rise. She had taken cold in the garden, and as a souvenir of the event, had carried home a fever and a cough. But it was not indisposition alone which blanched her cheeks. Something mightier than fever glowed in her flashing eyes, something more painful than malady threw that deadly paleness over her sweet, innocent face. From time to time she glanced at a paper lying on the table before her, and every time her eye fell upon it her brow grow darker.
There was a knock at the door. She started, and murmuring—"The king!"—she flung her handkerchief over the papers, and throwing back her head, compelled herself to calmness; while her husband, lifting the silken portiere, advanced toward the table. She tried to rise, but Louis came hastily to prevent it, saying: "I come to make inquiries concerning your health; but if my presence is to disturb you, I shall retire."
"Remain, then, sire—I will not rise," said the queen, with a languid smile.
"Are you still suffering?" said Louis.
"Only from a cold, sire; it will pass away."
"A cold, for which you are indebted to the chill night-air. It would appear that the Queens of France, who lived and died without seeing the sun rise, were not so stupid, after all."
The queen gave a searching look at the king's face, and saw that it was disturbed.