“Your highness wished to make me understand that perhaps Mademoiselle de Méridor was not dead, and that therefore those who believed themselves her murderers might be free from remorse.”
“Oh, monsieur, you have taken your time before making this consoling reflection to me. You are a faithful servant, on my word; you saw me sad and afflicted, you heard me speak of the wretched dreams I had since the death of this woman, and you let me live thus, when even a doubt might have spared me so much suffering. How must I consider this conduct, monsieur?”
“Monseigneur, is your highness accusing me?”
“Traitor!” cried the duke, “you have deceived me; you have taken from me this woman whom I loved——”
Monsoreau turned pale, but did not lose his proud, calm look. “It is true,” said he.
“True, knave!”
“Please to speak lower, monseigneur; your highness forgets, that you speak to a gentleman and an old servant.”
The duke laughed.
“My excuse is,” continued he, “that I loved Mademoiselle de Méridor ardently.”
“I, also,” replied François, with dignity.