“Then, my friend, why, from so gay as you used to be, have I seen you become sad? and why, instead of going out by day, do you only go out at night?”

“My brother, I am not sad.”

“What, then?”

“In love.”

“Good!  And this preoccupation?”

“Is because I am always thinking of my love.”

“And you sigh in saying that?”

“Yes.”

“You sigh?—­you, Henri, comte de Bouchage?—­you, the brother of Joyeuse?—­you, whom some people call the third king in France?  You know M. de Guise is the second, if not the first; but you, rich and handsome, who will be peer and duke on the first occasion, are in love, and you sigh!—­you, whose device is ‘hilariter.’”

“My dear Anne, I have never reckoned the gifts of fortune, past and to come, as things to constitute happiness; I have no ambitions.”

“That is to say, you have not at present.”

“At all events, not for the things you speak of.”

“Not just now, perhaps, but later you will return to them.”

“Never, brother; I desire nothing—­I want nothing.”

“You are wrong.  When one is called ‘Joyeuse,’ one of the best names in France, when one has a brother a king’s favorite, one desires everything, and has everything.”

Henri hung his blond head sadly.

“Come,” continued Anne, “we are quite alone here; have you anything to tell me?”

“Nothing, but that I love.”

“Diable! that is not a very serious affair; I also am in love.”

“Not like me, brother.”

“I, also, think sometimes of my mistress.”

“Yes, but not always.”

“I, also, have annoyances.”

“Yes; but you also have joys, for you are loved.”

“True; but I have obstacles.  They exact from me so much mystery.”

“They exact!  If your mistress exacts, she loves you.”

“Yes, she loves me and M. de Mayenne—­or rather only me, for she would give up Mayenne at once if she was not afraid he would kill her; it is his habit to kill women, you know.  I am obliged to be constantly on my guard, but I do not grow sad on that account; I continue to laugh—­at least, sometimes.  Tell me, Henri, is your lady beautiful?”

“Alas! she is not mine.”

“Is she beautiful?  Her name?”

“I do not know it.”

“Come, now.”

“On my honor.”

“My friend, I begin to think it is more dangerous than I thought; it is not sadness, but madness.”

“She never spoke but once before me, and since then I have not heard the sound of her voice.”

“And you have not inquired about her?”

“Of whom?”

“Why, of the neighbors.”

“She lives in her own house, and no one knows her.”

“Ah! ca! then she is a ghost!”

“She is a woman, tall and beautiful as a nymph, serious and grave as the angel Gabriel!”