"Would you know, my noble king, who the Geraldine is to whom Henry Howard addresses his love-songs?
Shall I tell you the real name of this woman to whom, in the presence of your sacred person and of your whole court, he uttered his passionate protestations of love and his oath of eternal faithfulness?
Well, now, this Geraldine--so adored, so deified--is the queen!" "That is not true!" cried the king, crimson with anger; and he clenched his hands so firmly about the arms of his chair that it cracked.

"That is not true, my lady!" "It is true!" said the duchess, haughtily and saucily.

"It is true, sire, for the Earl of Surrey has confessed to me myself that it is the queen whom he loves, and that Geraldine is only a melodious appellation for Catharine." "He has confessed it to you yourself ?" inquired the king, with gasping breath.

"Ah, he dares love his king's wife?
Woe to him, woe!" He raised his clenched fist threateningly to heaven, and his eyes darted lightning.

"But how!" said he, after a pause--"has he not recently read before us a poem to his Geraldine, in which he thanks her for her love, and acknowledges himself eternally her debtor for the kiss she gave him ?" "He has read before your majesty such a poem to Geraldine." The king uttered a low cry, and raised himself in his seat.