“Oh, you show too much consideration, sire!  Our relations of twenty years or so can scarce suffice to explain such forbearance from you.  I should indeed be grateful that you have not set your archers of the guard upon me, or marched me from the palace between a file of your musketeers.  Sire, how can I thank you for this forbearance?” She curtsied low, with her face set in a mocking smile.

“Your words are bitter, madame.”

“My heart is bitter, sire.”

“Nay, Francoise, be reasonable, I implore you.  We have both left our youth behind.”

“The allusion to my years comes gratefully from your lips.”

“Ah, you distort my words.  Then I shall say no more.  You may not see me again, madame.  Is there no question which you would wish to ask me before I go?”

“Good God!” she cried; “is this a man?  Has it a heart?  Are these the lips which have told me so often that he loved me?  Are these the eyes which have looked so fondly into mine?  Can you then thrust away a woman whose life has been yours as you put away the St. Germain palace when a more showy one was ready for you?  And this is the end of all those vows, those sweet whispers, those persuasions, those promises—­This!”

“Nay, madame, this is painful to both of us.”

“Pain!  Where is the pain in your face?  I see anger in it because I have dared to speak truth; I see joy in it because you feel that your vile task is done.  But where is the pain?  Ah, when I am gone all will be so easy to you—­will it not?  You can go back then to your governess—­”

“Madame!”

“Yes, yes, you cannot frighten me!  What do I care for all that you can do!  But I know all.  Do not think that I am blind.  And so you would even have married her!  You, the descendant of St. Louis, and she the Scarron widow, the poor drudge whom in charity I took into my household!  Ah, how your courtiers will smile! how the little poets will scribble! how the wits will whisper!  You do not hear of these things, of course, but they are a little painful for your friends.”

“My patience can bear no more,” cried the king furiously.  “I leave you, madame, and forever.”

But her fury had swept all fear and discretion from her mind.  She stepped between the door and him, her face flushed, her eyes blazing, her face thrust a little forward, one small white satin slipper tapping upon the carpet.

“You are in haste, sire!  She is waiting for you, doubtless.”

“Let me pass, madame.”

“But it was a disappointment last night, was it not, my poor sire?  Ah, and for the governess, what a blow!  Great heaven, what a blow!  No archbishop!  No marriage!  All the pretty plan gone wrong!  Was it not cruel?”

Louis gazed at the beautiful furious face in bewilderment, and it flashed across his mind that perhaps her grief had turned her brain.  What else could be the meaning of this wild talk of the archbishop and the disappointment?  It would be unworthy of him to speak harshly to one who was so afflicted.  He must soothe her, and, above all, he must get away from her.