“Give her up! she is my wife before God——”
“If she is your wife before God, you shall give her up before men. I know all, and I will break this marriage, I tell you. To-morrow, Mademoiselle de Méridor shall be restored to her father; you shall set off into the exile I impose on you; you shall have sold your place; these are my conditions, and take care, or I will break you as I break this glass.” And he threw down violently a crystal cup.
“I will not give up my wife, I will not give up my place, and I will remain in France,” replied Monsoreau.
“You will not?”
“No, I will ask my pardon of the King of France—of the king anointed at the Abbey of St. Geneviève; and this new sovereign will not, I am sure, refuse the first request proffered to him.” François grew deadly pale, and nearly fell.
“Well, well,” stammered he, “this request, speak lower—I listen.”
“I will speak humbly, as becomes the servant of your highness. A fatal love was the cause of all. Love is the most imperious of the passions. To make me forget that your highness had cast your eyes on Diana, I must have been no longer master of myself.”
“It was a treason.”
“Do not overwhelm me, monseigneur; I saw you rich, young and happy, the first Christian prince in the world. For you are so, and between you and supreme rank there is now only a shadow easy to dispel. I saw all the splendor of your future, and, comparing your proud position with my humble one, I said, ‘Leave to the prince his brilliant prospects and splendid projects, scarcely will he miss the pearl that I steal from his royal crown.’”
“Comte! comte!”