“Approach, Leonora,” said the Queen.  “Here, place yourself on this cushion at my feet, and wipe the tears from your eyes.  Even if we part, we may do so without bitterness.”

“Ha, Madame!” exclaimed the Florentine, “should such a feeling indeed exist it can be only in the bosom of your Majesty, for no true subject can do otherwise than love and venerate her sovereign.”

“Would that it were so,” said Marie; “but that is a delusion under which I have long ceased to labour; for too often where I have sought to excite affection I have only engendered hatred.”

“I know not if your Majesty would address that reproach to me,” said Madame d’Ancre, raising her drooping head with the sudden energy of honest pride; “but should it really be so, I can summon the past to vindicate my good faith.  I can call upon the Queen-Regent of France herself to do me justice; I can invoke the two years of that regency, so full of trial, of struggle, and of calamity, during which I have at times perilled my head to ensure alike the tranquillity and the triumph of my august mistress; I can quote the several cabals which I have helped to crush; and, above all, I can prove the fidelity and submission with which I have constantly obeyed the behests of my sovereign lady.  All this is, however, worse than idle; the servant only sins the more in every attempt at self-justification.  Monarchs are accustomed from their cradles to punish upon suspicion, however strong may be the evidences of the past.  Gratitude, as the term is understood between man and man, never drapes itself in purple; perfect confidence cannot steady its foot upon the steps of a throne, for the royal canopy is a heaven of impunity for those whom it overshadows.  Yet think not, Madame,” she continued, in a more subdued voice, as she clasped her thin fingers together so forcibly that they became ashy white beneath the pressure—­“think not, I beseech you, that I say this of myself.  I have no such presumption.  I have not forgotten what I was, in feeling what I am.  I yet remember, deeply, thankfully, that I was poor, obscure, and insignificant, and that it was your royal hand which raised me to rank and honour; and thus it is with the most fervent gratitude that I now thank you for your past bounties; and with the utmost humility that I prepare to take my leave of you for ever.”

Marie did not reply; the outburst of outraged feeling in which the Marquise had indulged was so unexpected and so bold that she remained speechless, and the tears which had risen to her eyes on the entrance of her foster-sister congealed upon their lids.  Leonora awaited for an instant some token of relenting in her royal mistress, but as the threatening silence continued, she became alarmed, and casting herself upon her knees, she gasped out falteringly, “I am at your feet, Madame; I kneel before you, wretched and repentant; I am here to bid you farewell—­a life-long farewell.  Pardon, and forget me.”