Catherine entered, looking pale. The duke made a movement to rise, but she threw herself into his arms and half stifled him with kisses. She did more—she wept.
“We must take care,” said Antragues to Ribeirac, “each tear will be paid for by blood.”
Catherine now sat down on the foot of the bed. At a sign from Bussy everyone went away but himself.
“Will you not go and look after my poor attendants, M. de Bussy? you who are at home here,” said the queen.
It was impossible not to go, so he replied, “I am happy to please your majesty,” and he also retired.
Catherine wished to discover whether her son were really ill or feigning. But he, worthy son of such a mother, played his part to perfection. She had wept, he had a fever. Catherine, deceived, thought him really ill, and hoped to have more influence over a mind weakened by suffering. She overwhelmed him with tenderness, embraced him, and wept so much that at last he asked her the reason.
“You have run so great a risk,” replied she.
“In escaping from the Louvre, mother?”
“No, after.”
“How so?”