"Oh, you wretch! Catherine de Médicis has a certain sort of beauty of her own, a stern and cold style of beauty, but undeniable. However, it is not the queen whom I expect. Can you guess who it is?"
"No, I really cannot, Sire."
"It is another Diane, dear,—the living memento of our young affections, our daughter, our darling daughter."
"You said that too loud and too often, Sire," said Diane, frowning, and in a somewhat embarrassed tone. "It was agreed that Madame de Castro should pass for the child of another than myself. I was born to have legitimate children by you. I have been your mistress because I loved you; but I will not put up with your openly declaring me your concubine."
"That shall be as your pride dictates, Diane," was the king's reply; "but you love our child dearly, do you not?"
"I like to have you love her."
"Oh, yes! I love her very much. She is so fascinating, so clever, so sweet! And then, Diane, she reminds me so of my younger days and of the time when I loved you—ah! no more passionately than to-day, God knows, but when I loved you so that I was willing to commit a crime."
The king, who had suddenly fallen into gloomy reflection, raised his head.
"This Montgommery! You didn't care for him, did you, Diane? You didn't care for him?"
"What a foolish question!" said the favorite, with a disdainful smile. "Still so jealous after twenty years!"