“Well ma mie, let us leave it for the present; have you not something like a ball this evening?”

“Yes, sire,” said Marguerite, astonished, “but that is not extraordinary; you know we dance nearly every evening.”

“I have a great chase for to-morrow.”

“Each our pleasure, sire; you love the chase, I the dance.”

“Yes, ma mie, and there is no harm in that,” said Henri, sighing.

“Certainly not; but your majesty sighed as you said it.”

“Listen to me, madame; I am uneasy.”

“About what, sire?”

“About a current report.”

“A report; your majesty uneasy about a report?”

“What more simple; when this report may annoy you.”

“Me?”—­“Yes, you.”

“Sire, I do not understand you.”

“Have you heard nothing?”

Marguerite began to tremble.  “I am the least curious woman in the world,” said she, “I hear nothing but what is cried in my very ears.  Besides, I think so little of reports, that I should not listen to them if I heard them.”

“It is then your opinion, madame, that one should despise reports?”

“Absolutely, sire; particularly kings and queens.”

“Why so, madame?”

“Because, as every one talks of us, we should have enough to do to listen to them all.”

“Well, I believe you are right, ma mie, and I am about to furnish you with an excellent opportunity of exercising your philosophy.”

Marguerite believed that the decisive moment had come, and rallied all her courage.

“So be it, sire,” said she.

Henri began in the tone of a penitent who has some great sin to acknowledge.

“You know the great interest I take in Fosseuse?”

“Ah!” cried Marguerite, triumphantly, seeing he was not about to accuse her; “yes, yes; the little Fosseuse, your friend.”

“Yes, madame.”

“My lady in waiting.”—­“Yes.”

“Your passion—­your love.”

“Ah! you speak now just like one of the reports you were abusing just now.”

“It is true, sire, and I ask your pardon,” said Marguerite, smiling.

“Ma mie, you are right, public report often lies, and we sovereigns have great reason to establish this theory;” and he laughed ironically.

“Well; and Fosseuse?” said Marguerite.

“She is ill, ma mie, and the doctors do not understand her malady.”

“That is strange, sire.  Fosseuse, who you say is a pearl of purity, ought to allow the doctors to penetrate into the secret of her illness.”

“Alas! it is not so.”

“What!” cried the queen; “is she not a pearl of purity?”

“I mean that she persists in hiding the cause of her illness from the doctors.”

“But to you, sire, her confidant, her father.”

“I know nothing, or at least wish to know nothing.”

“Then, sire,” said Marguerite, who now believed that she had to confer instead of asking a pardon; “then, sire, I do not know what you want; and wait for you to explain.”