lightly like a shadow, she was already near the table, and had reached
the two accomplices, when Lebeau saw her. With her finger on her lips
she motioned him to be silent, and continued to advance, wishing to
convict the king in the very act of his treachery, and avoid all
evasion, subterfuge, or useless dissimulation; but the valet set her
order at defiance and gave the alarm, "The Queen, sire!"

The Dalmatian, furious, struck straight in the face of this malevolent
caitiff with the powerful hand of a woman accustomed to handle the
reins; and drawing herself up erect, waited till the wretch had
disappeared before she addressed the king.

"What has happened, my dear Frederique? and to what am I indebted
for--?"

Standing bent over the table that he strove to hide, in a graceful
attitude that showed off his silk jacket embroidered in pink, he smiled,
and although his lips were rather pale, his voice remained calm, his
speech easy, with that polished elegance which never left him when
addressing his wife, and which placed a barrier between them like a hard
lacquer screen adorned with flowery and intricate arabesques. With one
word, one gesture, she put aside the barrier behind which he would fain
have sheltered himself.

"Oh! no phrases, no grimacing--if you please. I know what you were
writing there. Do not try to give me the lie."

Then drawing nearer, overwhelming his timorous objection by her haughty
bearing:--

"Listen to me, Christian," and there was something in her tone that gave
an impression of solemnity to her words; "listen to me: you have made me
suffer cruelly since I became your wife. I have never said anything but
once--the first time, you remember. After that, when I saw that you had
ceased to love me, I left you to yourself. Not that I was ignorant of
anything you did--not one of your infidelities, not one of your follies
remained unknown to me. For you must indeed be mad, mad like your
father, who died of exhaustion, mad with love for Lola; mad like your
grandfather John, who died in a shameful delirium, foaming and framing
kisses with the death-rattle in his throat, and uttering words that made
the Sisters of Charity grow pale. Yes, it is the same fevered blood, the
same hellish passion that devours you. At Ragusa, on the nights of the
sortie, it was at Foedora's that they sought you. I knew it, I knew
that she had left her theatre to follow you. I never uttered a single
reproach. The honor of