These words, uttered in an accent of profound terror, startled the king and mitigated his rage. The idea passed quickly through his mind that in their family, as by a curse, brother had always assassinated brother.
“No, my brother,” said he, “you are wrong; I do not wish to hurt you, but you cannot contend with me. I am the master, and if you did not know it before, you know it now.”
“Yes, my brother, I acknowledge it.”
“Very well, then give me that letter; the king orders it.”
The duke let it fall, and the king picked it up, but without reading it put it in his pocket-book.
“Is that all?” said the duke, with his sinister glance.
“No, monsieur, you must keep your room until my suspicions with respect to you are completely dissipated. The room is commodious, and not much like a prison; stay here. You will have good company—at least, outside the door, for this night these four gentlemen will guard you; to-morrow they will be relieved by a guard of Swiss.”
“But, my friends—cannot I see them?”
“Who do you call your friends?”
“M. de Monsoreau, M. de Ribeirac, M. Antragues, and M. de Bussy.”