His whole married life,with its fierce,fiery-coloured joys and the terrible agony of its sudden ending seemed to come back to him today as he watched the infanta playing on the terrace.She had all the queen’s pretty petulance of manner,the same wilful way of tossing her head,the same proud curved beautiful mouth,the same wonderful smile—vrai sourire de France indeed—as she glanced up now and then at the window,or stretched out her little hand for the stately Spanish gentlemen to kiss.But the shrill laughter of the children grated on his ears,and the bright pitiless sunlight mocked his sorrow,and a dull odour of strange spices,such as embalmers use,seemed to taint—or was it fancy? —the clear morning air.He buried his face in his hands,and when the infanta looked up again the curtains had been drawn,and the king had retired.