“Will it please you, monsieur, to sit down and talk to me?”

“Oh, yes!”

“Speak, then, monsieur, and tell me what you desire.”

“My friend, you already know.  Many times, you know, I have waited for you and surprised you at the turn of a street, and have offered you gold enough to enrich you, had you been the greediest of men; at other times I have threatened you, but you have never listened to me, and have always seen me suffer without seeming to pity me.  To-day you tell me to speak—­to express my wishes; what then has happened, mon Dieu?”

The servant sighed.  He had evidently a pitying heart under a rough covering.  Henry heard this sigh, and it encouraged him.

“You know,” continued he, “that I love, and how I love; you have seen me pursue a woman and discover her, in spite of her efforts to fly me:  but never in my greatest grief has a bitter word escaped me, or have I given heed to those violent thoughts which are born of despair and the fire of youth.”

“It is true, monsieur; and in this my mistress renders you full justice.”

“Could I not,” continued Henri, “when you refused me admittance, have forced the door, as is done every day by some lad, tipsy, or in love?  Then, if but for a minute, I should have seen this inexorable woman, and have spoken to her.”

“It is true.”

“And,” continued the young count, sadly, “I am something in this world; my name is great as well as my fortune, the king himself protects me; just now he begged me to confide to him my griefs and to apply to him for aid.”

“Ah!” said the servant, anxiously.

“I would not do it,” continued Joyeuse; “no, no, I refused all, to come and pray at this door with clasped hands—­a door which never yet opened to me.”

“M. le Comte, you have indeed a noble heart, and worthy to be loved.”

“Well, then, he whom you call worthy, to what do you condemn him?  Every morning my page brings a letter; it is refused.  Every evening I knock myself at the door, and I am disregarded.  You let me suffer, despair, die in the street, without having the compassion for me that you would have for a dog that howled.  Ah! this woman has no woman’s heart, she does not love me.  Well! one can no more tell one’s heart to love than not to love.  But you may pity the unfortunate who suffers, and give him a word of consolation—­reach out your hand to save him from falling; but no, this woman cares not for my sufferings.  Why does she not kill me, either with a refusal from her mouth, or some blow from a poniard?  Dead, I should suffer no more.”

“M. le Comte,” replied the man, “the lady whom you accuse is, believe me, far from having the hard, insensible heart you think; she has seen you, and understood what you suffer, and feels for you the warmest sympathy.”

“Oh! compassion, compassion!” cried the young man; “but may that heart of which you boast some day know love—­love such as I feel, and may they offer her compassion in exchange; I shall be well avenged.”