Left alone with the Constable, Louise regarded him anxiously and tenderly, but the stern expression of Bourbon's features underwent no change. The duchess, however, would not be discouraged, but said, in a gentle voice which she thought calculated to move him, “Dismiss that frown, Charles de Bourbon, and come and sit nigh me. Nay,” she added, playfully, “I will be obeyed.”
But Bourbon moved not, and his brow grew yet more sombre.
Presently she arose, and, stepping up to him, laid her hand gently upon his arm.
He shrank from her touch as if a viper had stung him.
Mastering her anger by a great effort, she said,
“Come, let us be friends, Charles de Bourbon. We have been enemies long enough.”
“Friends, madame!” exclaimed Bourbon, bitterly. “You can scarcely expect it.”
“But you will forgive me, Charles, will you not, when I tell you I still love you?” she rejoined.
“You are too old for love, madame—far too old,” he rejoined, with a look almost of loathing. “You may have loved me years ago, though your conduct since would lead me to doubt it. But now the feeling ought to he—must be—a stranger to your breast.”
“My love for you is strong as ever, and enables me even to bear this language from you,” she said. Hear my explanation before you reproach me so severely.”