"See, how many words we have wasted," she said, taking his hand: "suspicions, anxieties, mistrust, sufferings--I think we have mentioned all those words."
"Efface them from your heart as I drive them from mine. Whether La Valliere does or does not love the king, and whether the king does or does not love La Valliere--from this moment you and I will draw a distinction in the two characters I have to perform. You open your eyes so wide that I am sure you do not understand me."
"You are so impetuous, madame, that I always tremble at the fear of displeasing you."
"And see how he trembles now, poor fellow," she said, with the most charming playfulness of manner. "Yes, monsieur, I have two characters to perform. I am the sister of the king, the sister-in-law of the king's wife. In this character ought I not to take an interest in these domestic intrigues? Come, tell me what you think?"
"Agreed, monsieur; but it is a question of dignity; and then, you know, I am the wife of the king's brother." Guiche sighed. "A circumstance," she added, with an expression of great tenderness, "which will remind you that I am always to be treated with the profoundest respect." Guiche fell at her feet, which he kissed, with the religious fervor of a worshiper. "And I begin to think that, really and truly, I have another character to perform. I was almost forgetting it."
"I am a woman," she said, in a voice lower than ever, "and I love another." He rose; she opened her arms, and their lips were pressed together. A footstep was heard behind the tapestry, and Mademoiselle de Montalais appeared.
"M. de Guiche is wanted," replied Montalais, who was just in time to see the agitation of the actors of these four characters; for Guiche had constantly carried out his part with the greatest heroism.
Montalais was right. M. de Guiche, summoned in every direction, was very much exposed, even from the multiplication of matters, to the risk of not answering in any one direction. It so happened that, considering the awkwardness of the interruption, Madame, notwithstanding her wounded pride, and her secret anger, could not, for the moment at least, reproach Montalais for having violated, in so bold a manner, the semi-royal order with which she had been dismissed on Guiche's entrance. Guiche, also, lost his presence of mind, or, it would be better to say, that he had already lost it before Montalais's arrival; for, scarcely had he heard the young girl's voice, than, without taking leave of Madame, as the most ordinary politeness required, even between persons equal in rank and station, he fled from her presence, his heart tumultuously throbbing, and his brain on fire, leaving the princess with one hand raised, as though about to bid him adieu. Montalais was at no loss, therefore, to perceive the agitation of the two lovers--the one who fled was agitated, and the one who remained was equally so.