“Withdraw, sire!  For how long?”

“It must be a permanent withdrawal, madame.”

She stood with clenched hands and a pale face staring at him.

“I need not say that I shall make your retirement a happy one as far as in me lies.  Your allowance shall be fixed by yourself; a palace shall be erected for you in whatever part of France you may prefer, provided that it is twenty miles from Paris.  An estate also—­”

“Oh, sire, how can you think that such things as these would compensate me for the loss of your love?” Her heart had turned to lead within her breast.  Had he spoken hotly and angrily she might have hoped to turn him as she had done before; but this gentle and yet firm bearing was new to him, and she felt that all her arts were vain against it.  His coolness enraged her, and yet she strove to choke down her passion and to preserve the humble attitude which was least natural to her haughty and vehement spirit; but soon the effort became too much for her.

“Madame,” said he, “I have thought well over this matter, and it must be as I say.  There is no other way at all.  Since we must part, the parting had best be short and sharp.  Believe me, it is no pleasant matter for me either.  I have ordered your brother to have his carriage at the postern at nine o’clock, for I thought that perhaps you would wish to retire after nightfall.”

“To hide my shame from a laughing court!  It was thoughtful of you, sire.  And yet, perhaps, this too was a duty, since we hear so much of duties nowadays, for who was it but you—­”

“I know, madame, I know.  I confess it.  I have wronged you deeply.  Believe me that every atonement which is in my power shall be made.  Nay, do not look so angrily at me, I beg.  Let our last sight of each other be one which may leave a pleasant memory behind it.”

“A pleasant memory!” All the gentleness and humility had fallen from her now, and her voice had the hard ring of contempt and of anger.  “A pleasant memory!  It may well be pleasant to you, who are released from the woman whom you ruined, who can turn now to another without any pale face to be seen within the salons of your court to remind you of your perfidy.  But to me, pining in some lonely country house, spurned by my husband, despised by my family, the scorn and jest of France, far from all which gave a charm to life, far from the man for whose love I have sacrificed everything—­this will be a very pleasant memory to me, you may be sure!”

The king’s eyes had caught the angry gleam which shot from hers, and yet he strove hard to set a curb upon his temper.  When such a matter had to be discussed between the proudest man and the haughtiest woman in all France, one or the other must yield a point.  He felt that it was for him to do so, and yet it did not come kindly to his imperious nature.

“There is nothing to be gained, madame,” said he, “by using words which are neither seemly for your tongue nor for my ears.  You will do me the justice to confess that where I might command I am now entreating, and that instead of ordering you as my subject, I am persuading you as my friend.”