"Oh!" said Mademoiselle de Mancini mournfully, wounded by that expression.

"The king has no will but that which policy dictates, but that which
reasons of state impose upon him."

"Oh! it is because you have no love," cried Mary; "if you loved, sire,
you would have a will."

On pronouncing these words, Mary raised her eyes to her lover, whom she
saw more pale and more cast down than an exile who is about to quit his
native land forever. "Accuse me," murmured the king, "but do not say I
do not love you."

A long silence followed these words, which the young king had pronounced
with a perfectly true and profound feeling. "I am unable to think that
to-morrow, and after to-morrow, I shall see you no more; I cannot think
that I am going to end my sad days at a distance from Paris; that the
lips of an old man, of an unknown, should touch that hand which you hold
within yours; no, in truth, I cannot think of all that, my dear sire,
without having my poor heart burst with despair."

And Marie de Mancini did shed floods of tears. On his part, the king,
much affected, carried his handkerchief to his mouth, and stifled a sob.

"See," said she, "the carriages have stopped, my sister waits for me, the
time is come; what you are about to decide upon will be decided for
life. Oh, sire! you are willing, then, that I should lose you? You are
willing, then, Louis, that she to whom you have said 'I love you,' should
belong to another than to her king, to her master, to her lover? Oh!