was real and deep, and she became very sorry for him; and the longer the face of the rascally physician grew, the more sad the princess became; and she walked up and down, bewailing the terrible effects of her beauty, wishing that she were not so fair, and mourning very tenderly for the sad plight of the unhappy marquis.  Through all Prince Rudolf looked on, but was bound by his wager not to undeceive her; moreover, he found much entertainment in the matter, and swore that it was worth three times a thousand crowns.

At last the marquis sent, by the mouth of the physician, a very humble and pitiful message to the princess, in which he spoke of himself as near to death, hinted at the cruel cause of his condition, and prayed her of her compassion to visit him in his chamber and speak a word of comfort, or at least let him look on her face; for the brightness of her eyes, he said, might cure even what it had caused.

Deceived by this appeal, Princess Osra agreed to go.  Moved by some strange impulse, she put on her loveliest gown, dressed her hair most splendidly, and came into his chamber looking like a goddess.  There lay the marquis, white as a ghost and languid, on his pillows; and they were left, as they thought, alone.  Then Osra sat down, and began to talk very gently and kindly to him, glancing only at the madness which brought him to his sad state, and imploring him to summon his resolution and conquer his sickness for his friends’ sake at home in France, and for the sake of her brother, who loved him.

“There is nobody who loves me,” said the marquis, petulantly; and when Osra cried out at this, he went on:  “For the love of those whom I do not love is nothing to me, and the only soul alive I love—­” There he stopped, but his eyes, fixed on Osra’s face, ended the sentence for him.  And she blushed, and looked away.  Then, thinking the moment had come, he burst suddenly into a flood of protestations and self-reproach, cursing himself for a fool and a presumptuous madman, pitifully craving her pardon, and declaring that he did not deserve her kindness, and yet that he could not live without it, and that anyhow he would be dead soon and thus cease to trouble her.  But she, being thus passionately assailed, showed such sweet tenderness and compassion and pity that Monsieur de Merosailles came very near to forgetting that he was playing a comedy, and threw himself into his part with eagerness, redoubling his vehemence, and feeling now full half of what he said.  For the princess was to his eyes far more beautiful in her softer mood.  Yet he remembered his wager, and at last, when she was nearly in tears, and ready, as it seemed, to do anything to give him comfort, he cried desperately: 

“Ah, leave me, leave me!  Leave me to die alone!  Yet for pity’s sake, before you go, and before I die, give me your forgiveness, and let your lips touch my forehead in token of it!  And then I shall die in peace.”