you about his jealousy?"

"More frequently still."

"Of his jealousy of me?"

"No, but of the Duke of Buckingham and De Guiche."

"Well, Madame, Monsieur's present idea is a jealousy of myself."

"Really," replied the princess, smiling archly.

"And it really seems to me," continued the king, "that we have never
given any ground--"

"Never! at least _I_ have not. But who told you that Monsieur was
jealous?"

"My mother represented to me that Monsieur entered her apartments like a
madman, that he uttered a thousand complaints against you, and--forgive
me for saying it--against your coquetry. It appears that Monsieur
indulges in injustice, too."

"You are very kind, sire."

"My mother reassured him; but he pretended that people reassure him too
often, and that he had had quite enough of it."

"Would it not be better for him not to make himself uneasy in any way?"

"The very thing I said."

"Confess, sire, that the world is very wicked. Is it possible that a
brother and sister cannot converse together, or take pleasure in each
other's company, without giving rise to remarks and suspicions? For
indeed, sire, we are doing no harm, and have no intention of doing any."
And she looked at the king with that proud yet provoking glance that
kindles desire in the coldest and wisest of men.

"No!" sighed the king, "that is true."

"You know very well, sire, that if it were to continue, I should be
obliged to make a disturbance. Do you decide upon our conduct, and say
whether it has, or has not, been perfectly correct."

"Oh, certainly--perfectly correct."

"Often alone together,--for we delight in the same things,--we might
possibly be led away into error, but _have_ we been? I regard you as a
brother, and nothing more."

The king frowned. She continued:

"Your hand, which often meets my own, does not excite in me that
agitation and emotion which is the case with those who love each other,
for instance--"

"Enough," said the king, "enough, I entreat you. You have no pity--you
are killing me."

"What is the matter?"

"In fact, then, you distinctly say you experience nothing when near me."

"Oh, sire! I don't say that--my affection--"

"Enough, Henrietta, I again entreat you. If you believe me to be marble,
as you are, undeceive yourself."

"I do not understand you, sire."

"Very well," said the king, casting down his eyes. "And so our meetings,
the pressure of each other's hand, the looks we have ex