“You frightened me!” she said, with a cry of surprise, which was quickly repressed.

“Were you thinking of me?” said the king.

“When do I not think of you?” she answered, sitting down beside him.

She took off his cap and cloak, passing her hands through his hair as though she combed it with her fingers.  Charles let her do as she pleased, but made no answer.  Surprised at this, Marie knelt down to study the pale face of her royal master, and then saw the signs of a dreadful weariness and a more consummate melancholy than any she had yet consoled.  She repressed her tears and kept silence, that she might not irritate by mistaken words the sorrow which, as yet, she did not understand.  In this she did as tender women do under like circumstances.  She kissed that forehead, seamed with untimely wrinkles, and those livid cheeks, trying to convey to the worn-out soul the freshness of hers,—­pouring her spirit into the sweet caresses which met with no response.  Presently she raised her head to the level of the king’s, clasping him softly in her arms; then she lay still, her face hidden on that suffering breast, watching for the opportune moment to question his dejected mind.

“My Charlot,” she said at last, “will you not tell your poor, distressed Marie the troubles that cloud that precious brow, and whiten those beautiful red lips?”

“Except Charlemagne,” he said in a hollow voice, “all the kings of France named Charles have ended miserably.”

“Pooh!” she said, “look at Charles VIII.”

“That poor prince!” exclaimed the king.  “In the flower of his age he struck his head against a low door at the chateau of Amboise, which he was having decorated, and died in horrible agony.  It was his death which gave the crown to our family.”

“Charles VII. reconquered his kingdom.”

“Darling, he died” (the king lowered his voice) “of hunger; for he feared being poisoned by the dauphin, who had already caused the death of his beautiful Agnes.  The father feared his son; to-day the son dreads his mother!”

“Why drag up the past?” she said hastily, remembering the dreadful life of Charles VI.

“Ah! sweetest, kings have no need to go to sorcerers to discover their coming fate; they need only turn to history.  I am at this moment endeavoring to escape the fate of Charles the Simple, who was robbed of his crown, and died in prison after seven years’ captivity.”

“Charles V. conquered the English,” she cried triumphantly.

“No, not he, but du Guesclin.  He himself, poisoned by Charles de Navarre, dragged out a wretched existence.”

“Well, Charles IV., then?”

“He married three times to obtain an heir, in spite of the masculine beauty of the children of Philippe le Bel.  The first house of Valois ended with him, and the second is about to end in the same way.  The queen has given me only a daughter, and I shall die without leaving her pregnant; for a long minority would be the greatest curse I could bequeath to the kingdom.  Besides, if I had a son, would he live?  The name of Charles is fatal; Charlemagne exhausted the luck of it.  If I left a son I would tremble at the thought that he would be Charles X.”