them to his mother. They thanked him for the honour he had done them, and assured him that as soon as their dresses and their equipages were ready they would not fail to come to the Court.
The King quitted them to finish the chase which he had begun; he kindly sent them half the game, and took the rest to the Queen. "How," said she, "is it possible you have had so little sport? you generally kill three times as much game." "Very true," replied the King, "but I have presented some to the handsome strangers. I feel so much affection for them, that it quite surprises me, and if you had not been so alarmed at the idea of contagion, I should have invited them to the Palace before this." The Queen-Mother was very angry; she accused him of failing in respect to her, and reproached him for having so carelessly exposed himself.
As soon as he had left her, she sent for Feintise to come and speak to her; she shut herself in her closet with her, and seized her by the hair, putting a dagger to her throat: "Wretched woman," said she, "I know not what should prevent my sacrificing thee to my just resentment,—thou hast betrayed me; thou hast not killed the four children I placed in thy hands to make away with. Confess thy crime, and perhaps I may forgive thee." Feintise, half dead with terror, threw herself at her feet, and told her all that had taken place; that she thought it impossible that the children were still alive, for so frightful a tempest had arisen, that she had herself been nearly killed by the hail; but at all events she prayed for time, and she would find means to do away with them, one after the other, without any one suspecting it.
The Queen, who sought but their death, was slightly appeased: she told her not to lose a moment about it; and indeed, old Feintise, who found herself in great danger, did all that depended upon her; she watched for the opportunity when the Princes went hunting, and taking a guitar under her arm, she went and sat down opposite the Princess's windows, and sang the following words:—
"Beauty hath o'er all things sway,
Profit by it while you may;
Youth soon flies,
Beauty dies,
And frosty age blights every flower.
