“When did you lose your skill to read my heart?” she cried.  “Must I actually tell you that this love is making me wretched?  True, at the very first this unsanctioned love was a keen joy:  a new life seemed to wake within my heart; I was drawn on, fascinated by the prayers, the tears, and the despair of this man, by the opportunities that his mother so easily granted, she whom I had always looked upon as my own mother; I have loved him....  O my God, I am still so young, and my past is so unhappy.  At times strange thoughts come into my mind:  I fancy he no longer loves me, that he never did love me; I fancy he has been led on by ambition, by self-interest, by some ignoble motive, and has only feigned a feeling that he has never really felt.  I feel myself a coldness I cannot account for; in his presence I am constrained, I am troubled by his look, his voice makes me tremble:  I fear him; I would sacrifice a year of my life could I never have listened to him.”

These words seemed to touch the young confidante to the very depths of her soul; a shade of sadness crossed her brow, her eyelids dropped, and for some time she answered nothing, showing sorrow rather than surprise.  Then, lifting her head gently, she said, with visible embarrassment—­

“I should never have dared to pass so severe a judgment upon a man whom my sovereign lady has raised above other men by casting upon him a look of kindness; but if Robert of Cabane has deserved the reproach of inconstancy and ingratitude, if he has perjured himself like a coward, he must indeed be the basest of all miserable beings, despising a happiness which other men might have entreated of God the whole time of their life and paid for through eternity.  One man I know, who weeps both night and day without hope or consolation, consumed by a slow and painful malady, when one word might yet avail to save him, did it come from the lips of my noble mistress.”

“I will not hear another word,” cried Joan, suddenly rising; “there shall be no new cause for remorse in my life.  Trouble has come upon me through my loves, both lawful and criminal; alas! no longer will I try to control my awful fate, I will bow my head without a murmur.  I am the queen, and I must yield myself up for the good of my subjects.”

“Will you forbid me, madam,” replied Dona Cancha in a kind, affectionate tone—­“will you forbid me to name Bertrand of Artois in your presence, that unhappy man, with the beauty of an angel and the modesty of a girl?  Now that you are queen and have the life and death of your subjects in your own keeping, will you feel no kindness towards an unfortunate one whose only fault is to adore you, who strives with all his mind and strength to bear a chance look of yours without dying of his joy?”

“I have struggled hard never to look on him,” cried the queen, urged by an impulse she was not strong enough to conquer:  then, to efface the impression that might well have been made on her friend’s mind, she added severely, “I forbid you to pronounce his name before me; and if he should ever venture to complain, I bid you tell him from me that the first time I even suspect the cause of his distress he will be banished for ever from my presence.”