Charles’s eye remained pensive for a further span. But suddenly it wandered to the Frenchwoman, and the mercurial King burst into laughter.
“Odd’s my life, but look at your sweetheart, my lord! The wench is on the very coals of jealousy—a live trout in the frying-pan were in comfort compared to her. Nay, we’ll have no torture in our presence. Fain would you look at your rival, madame?”
Rockhurst made no effort to interfere, and with trembling fingers Jeanne took the trinket from the King’s hand. In her turn she gave a cry; and Charles laughed heartily at the amazement, relief, and disappointment of her air.
“Why, ’tis naught but a boy!”
“Naught but a boy, indeed,” echoed Charles, “yet, we’ll go warrant what our Lord Constable holds dearest upon earth. A likely lad! Aye, and with a strange resemblance to Little Satan there.”
“God forbid!” ejaculated Rockhurst.
And “God forbid!” echoed Enguerrand, pertly, sharp as lightning.
Charles, who had been in high good humour, flung the lad a cold look, under which he fell back abashed and crimsoning—only to glance up again with a spasm of anger and hatred at the Lord Constable, as soon as the sovereign’s head was averted.
“We knew you had an heir,” said the King; then, turning with dignity to his host, “but, my lord Rockhurst, you have let us forget it. How is it? He should be at our Court.”
Bowing deeply, Rockhurst answered in a low voice:—