“You pardon me, monseigneur, do you not?”
At this moment the duke raised his eyes, and saw Bussy’s portrait on the wall. It seemed to exhort him to courage, and he said, “No, I cannot pardon you; it is not for myself that I hold out, it is because a father in mourning—a father unworthily deceived—cries out for his daughter; because a woman, forced to marry you, cries for vengeance against you; because, in a word, the first duty of a prince is justice.”
“Monseigneur, if justice be a duty, gratitude is not less so; and a king should never forget those to whom he owes his crown. Now, monseigneur, you owe your crown to me.”
“Monsoreau!” cried the duke, in terror.
“But I cling to those only who cling to me.”
“I cannot—you are a gentleman, you know I cannot approve of what you have done. My dear count, this one more sacrifice; I will recompense you for it; I will give you all you ask.”
“Then your highness loves her still!” cried Monsoreau, pale with jealousy.
“No, I swear I do not.”
“Then, why should I? I am a gentleman; who can enter into the secrets of my private life?”
“But she does not love you.”