“Continue, duke.”
“Sire, the title of most Christian king is not a vain one; it makes an ardent zeal for religion incumbent on its possessor.”
“Is the Church menaced by the Saracens once more?”
“Sire, the great concourse of people who followed me, blessing my name, honored me with this reception only because of my zeal to defend the Church. I have already had the honor of speaking to your majesty of an alliance between all true Catholics.”
“Yes, yes,” said Chicot, “the League; ventre de biche, Henri, the League. By St. Bartholomew! how can you forget so splendid an idea, my son?”
The duke cast a disdainful glance on Chicot, while d’Anjou, who stood by, as pale as death, tried by signs, to make the duke stop.
“Look at your brother, Henri,” whispered Chicot.
“Sire,” continued the Duc de Guise, “the Catholics have indeed called this association the Holy League, and its aim is to fortify the throne against the Huguenots, its mortal enemies; but to form an association is not enough, and in a kingdom like France, several millions of men cannot assemble without the consent of the king.”
“Several millions!” cried Henri, almost with terror.
“Several millions!” repeated Chicot; “a small number of malcontents, which may bring forth pretty results.”