“A woman’s letter, sire.”
“There are some women’s letters very good to see, and dangerous not to see—such as those our mother writes.”
“Brother!”
“This letter, monsieur!” cried the king, stamping his foot, “or I will have it torn from you by my Swiss!”
The duke jumped out of bed, with the letter crumpled in his hand, evidently with the intention of approaching the fire. But Henri, divining his intention, placed himself between him and the fire.
“You would not treat your brother thus?” cried the duke.
“Not my brother, but my mortal enemy. Not my brother, but the Duc D’Anjou, who went all through Paris with M. de Guise, who tries to hide from me a letter from one of his accomplices, the Lorraine princes.”
“This time,” said the duke, “your police are wrong.”
“I tell you I saw on the seal the three merlets of Lorraine. Give it to me, mordieu! or——”
Henri advanced towards his brother and laid his hand on his shoulder. François had no sooner felt the touch of his hand than, falling on his knees, he cried out, “Help! help! my brother is going to kill me.”