from the eyes of the world the violence of her emotions. Day
after day the courtiers who came to see her dine observed that
the dishes were removed untasted from the table. She suffered the
tears to stream down her cheeks unconcealed in the presence of
the whole circle of ministers and envoys. To the King she spoke
with wild vehemence. "Let me go," she cried. "You have made your
woman a Countess: make her a Queen. Put my crown on her head.
Only let me hide myself in some convent, where I may never see
her more." Then, more soberly, she asked him how he reconciled
his conduct to his religious professions. "You are ready," she
said, "to put your kingdom to hazard for the sake of your soul;
and yet you are throwing away your soul for the sake of that
creature." Father Petre, on bended knees, seconded these
remonstrances. It was his duty to do so; and his duty was not the
less strenuously performed because it coincided with his
interest. The King went on for a time sinning and repenting. In
his hours of remorse his penances were severe. Mary treasured up
to the end of her life, and at her death bequeathed to the
convent of Chaillot, the scourge with which he had vigorously
avenged her wrongs upon his own shoulders. Nothing but
Catharine's absence could put an end to this struggle between an
ignoble love and an ignoble superstition. James wrote, imploring
and commanding her to depart. He owned that he had promised to
bid her farewell in person. "But I know too well," he added, "the
power which you have over me. I have not strength of mind enough
to keep my resolution if I see you." He offered her a yacht to
convey her with all dignity and comfort to Flanders, and
threatened that if she did not go quietly she should be sent away
by force. She at one time worked on his feelings by pretending to
be ill. Then she assumed the airs of a martyr, and impudently