“Henry,” she whispered with tears in her usually merry eyes, “my heart is breaking for you.  Can I do anything?”

He would rather that she had not spoken of his sorrow at all, being a singularly reticent person, but he was touched by the love and solicitude in her face, and took and held her white fingers.

“You are always so good to me.  But there is nothing to be done.”

She slid her other hand into his arm and drew him on into the little sitting-room which was always set apart for her, close to her room.

“I am going to take care of you for the next hour, anyway—­you look frozen,” she told him.  “I shall make you sit in the big chair by the fire while I give you something to drink.  It is only half-past six.”

Then with fond severity she pushed him into a comfortable bergere, and, leaving him, gave an order to her maid in the next room to bring some brandy.  But before it came Moravia went back again, and drawing a low stool sat down almost at Henry’s feet.

The fire and her gentleness were soothing to him, as he lay there huddled in the chair.  The physical reaction was upon him from the shock and he felt almost as though he were going to faint.

Moravia watched him anxiously for some time without speaking—­he was so very pale.  Then she got up quickly when the maid brought in the tray, and pouring him out some brandy she brought it over and knelt down by his side.

“Drink this,” she commanded kindly.  “I shall not stir until you do.”

Henry took the glass with nerveless fingers and gulped down the liquid as he was bid, but although she took the glass from him she did not get off her knees; indeed, when she had pushed it on to the tray near her, she came closer still and laid her cheek against his coat, taking his right hand and chafing it between her own to bring back some life into him, while she kept up a murmured flow of sweet sympathy—­as one would talk to an unhappy child.

Henry was not actually listening to her, but the warmth and the great vibrations of love coming from her began to affect him unconsciously, so that he slipped his arm round her and drew her to his side.

“Henry,” she whispered with a little gasp in her breath, “I would take all pain away from you, dear, if I could, but I can’t do anything, only just pet and love you into feeling better.  After all, everything passes in time.  I thought I should never get over the death of my husband, Girolamo, and now I don’t care a bit—­in fact, I only care about you and want to make you less unhappy.”

The Princess thoroughly believed in La Rochefoucauld’s maxim with the advice that people were more likely to take to a new passion when still agitated by the rests of the old one than if they were completely cured.  She intended, now that she was released from all honor to her friend, to do her very uttermost to draw Henry to herself, and thought it much wiser to begin to strike when the iron was hot.