“Alas, the joy of loving you is denied to me.”

“How?” said she.

“I dare not confess my situation to you!”

“Is it then very bad?”

“Ah, you will be ashamed of me!”

“Speak, I will hide my face in my hands,” and the cunning madame hid her face is such a way that she could look at her well-beloved between her fingers.

“Alas!” said he, “the other evening when you addressed me in such gracious words, I was so treacherously inflamed, that not knowing my happiness to be so near, and not daring to confess my flame to you, I ran to a Bordel where all the gentleman go, and there for love of you, and to save the honour of my brother whose head I should blush to dishonour, I was so badly infected that I am in great danger of dying of the Italian sickness.”

The lady, seized with terror, gave vent to the cry of a woman in labour, and with great emotion, repulsed him with a gentle little gesture.  Poor Lavalliere, finding himself in so pitiable state, went out of the room, but he had not even reached the tapestries of the door, when Marie d’Annebaut again contemplated him, saying to herself, “Ah! what a pity!” Then she fell into a state of great melancholy, pitying in herself the gentleman, and became the more in love with him because he was fruit three times forbidden.

“But for Maille,” said she to him, one evening that she thought him handsomer than unusual, “I would willingly take your disease.  Together we should then have the same terrors.”

“I love you too well,” said the brother, “not to be good.”

And he left her to go to his beautiful Limeuil.  You can imagine that being unable to refuse to receive the burning glances of the lady, during meal times, and the evenings, there was a fire nourished that warmed them both, but she was compelled to live without touching her cavalier, otherwise than with her eyes.  Thus occupied, Marie d’Annebaut was fortified at every point against the gallants of the Court, for there are no bounds so impassable as those of love, and no better guardian; it is like the devil, he whom it has in its clutches it surrounds with flames.  One evening, Lavalliere having escorted his friend’s wife to a dance given by Queen Catherine, he danced with the fair Limeuil, with whom he was madly in love.  At that time the knights carried on their amours bravely two by two, and even in troops.  Now all the ladies were jealous of La Limeuil, who at that time was thinking of yielding to the handsome Lavalliere.  Before taking their places in the quadrille, she had given him the sweetest of assignations for the morrow, during the hunt.  Our great Queen Catherine, who from political motives fermented these loves and stirred them up, like pastrycooks make the oven fires burn by poking, glanced at all the pretty couples interwoven in the quadrille, and said to her husband—­

“When they combat here, can they conspire against you, eh?”