"And so our meetings, the pressure of each other's hand, the looks we have exchanged--Yes, yes; you are right, and I understand your meaning," and he buried his face in his hands.
"Take care, sire," said Madame, hurriedly, "Monsieur de Saint-Aignan is looking at you." "Of course," said Louis, angrily; "never even the shadow of liberty! never any sincerity in my intercourse with any one! I imagine I have found a friend, who is nothing but a spy; a dearer friend, who is only a--sister!" Madame was silent, and cast down her eyes.
"My husband is jealous," she murmured, in a tone of which nothing could equal its sweetness and charm.
"You are right," exclaimed the king, suddenly.
"You see," she said, looking at him in a manner that set his heart on fire, "you are free, you are not suspected, the peace of your house is not disturbed." "Alas," said the king, "as yet you know nothing, for the queen is jealous." "Maria Theresa!" "Stark mad with jealousy! Monsieur's jealousy arises from hers; she was weeping and complaining to my mother, and was reproaching us for those bathing parties, which have made me so happy." "And me too," answered Madame, by a look.
"When, suddenly," continued the king, "Monsieur, who was listening, heard the word '_banos_,' which the queen pronounced with some degree of bitterness, that awakened his attention; he entered the room, looking quite wild, broke into the conversation, and began to quarrel with my mother so bitterly that she was obliged to leave him; so that, while you have a jealous husband to deal with, I shall have perpetually present before me a specter of jealousy with swollen eyes, a cadaverous face, and sinister looks." "Poor king," murmured Madame, as she lightly touched the king's hand.
He retained her hand in his, and in order to press it without exciting suspicion in the spectators, who were not so much taken up with the butterflies that they could not occupy themselves about other matters, and who perceived clearly enough that there was some mystery in the king's and Madame's conversation, Louis placed the dying butterfly before his sister-in-law, and bent over it as if to count the thousand eyes of its wings, or the particles of golden dust which covered it.
Neither of them spoke; however, their hair mingled, their breaths united, and their hands feverishly throbbed in each other's grasp.

Five minutes passed in this manner..