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offended virtue, which he would be at pains to ignore. The
whole atmosphere would be oppressive. The Queen would
look fatigued and afflicted—genteelly afflicted—and the
ladies of the court, who knew nothing and suspected
everything, would sit silently, now and then lifting their heads
to sigh meekly and look at him with gentle upbraiding in
large, condoning eyes. Oh, he knew it all, even to the halo
of noble-hearted devotion with which the Queen’s poor
groom of the chambers would try to deck his narrow head!
The fellow would place himself at Ulrik Frederik’s side
with ludicrous bravado, overwhelming him with polite
attentions and respectfully consoling stupidities, while his
small pale-blue eyes and every line of his thin figure would
cry out as plainly as words: “See, all are turning from him,
but I, never! Braving the King’s anger and the Queen’s
displeasure, I comfort the forsaken! I put my true heart
against—” Oh, how well he knew it all—everything—the
whole story!
Nothing of all this happened. The King received him
with a Latin proverb, a sure sign that he was in a good
humor. Marie rose and held out her hand to him as usual,
perhaps a little colder, a shade more reserved, but still in
a manner very different from what he had expected. Not
even when they were left alone together did she refer with
so much as a word to their encounter at Lynge, and Ulrik
Frederik wondered suspiciously. He did not know what to
make of this curious silence; he would almost rather she
had spoken.
Should he draw her out, thank her for not saying
anything, give himself up to remorse and repentance, and play
the game that they were reconciled again?
Somehow he did not quite dare to try it; for he had
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