ered out, "An excellent jest! admirably played!"

"A just punishment for curiosity," said the king, in a hoarse voice.
"Oh! who would think, after the chastisement that Tyrcis and Amyntas
had suffered, of endeavoring to surprise what is passing in the heart of
shepherdesses? Assuredly I shall not, for one; and, you, gentlemen?"

"Nor I! nor I!" repeated, in a chorus, the group of courtiers.

Madame was filled with triumph at the king's annoyance; and was full of
delight, thinking that her story had been, or was to be, the termination
of the whole affair. As for Monsieur, who had laughed at the two stories
without comprehending anything about them, he turned towards De Guiche,
and said to him, "Well, comte, you say nothing; can you not find
something to say? Do you pity M. Tyrcis and M. Amyntas, for instance?"

"I pity them with all my soul," replied De Guiche; "for, in very truth,
love is so sweet a fancy, that to lose it, fancy though it may be, is to
lose more than life itself. If, therefore, these two shepherds thought
themselves beloved,--if they were happy in that idea, and if, instead
of that happiness, they meet not only that empty void which resembles
death, but jeers and jests at love itself, which is worse than a
thousand deaths,--in that case, I say that Tyrcis and Amyntas are the
two most unhappy men I know."

"And you are right, too, Monsieur de Guiche," said the king; "for, in
fact, the injury in question is a very hard return for a little harmless
curiosity."

"That is as much to say, then, that the story of my Naiad has displeased
the king?" asked Madame, innocently.

"Nay, Madame, undeceive yourself," said Louis, taking the princess by
the hand; "your Naiad, on the contrary, has pleased me, and the more so,
because she was so truthful, and because her tale, I ought to add, is
confirmed by the testimony of unimpeachable witnesses."

These words fell upon La Valliere, accompanied by a look that on one,
from Socrates to Montaigne, could have exactly defined. The look and the
king's remark succeeded in overpowering the unhappy girl, who, with her
head upon Montalais's shoulder, seemed to have fainted away. The king
rose, without remarking this circumstance, of which no one, moreover,
took any notice, and, contrary to his usual custom, for generally he
remained late in Madame's apartments, he took his leave, and retired to
his own side of the palace. Saint-Aignan followed him, leaving the rooms
in as