“It is with grief at having displeased your majesty,” said a feminine voice. Now, although the voice was soft and respectful, Henri frowned, for it was as distasteful to him as the noise of thunder was to Augustus.
“Madame de St. Luc!” said he. “Ah! I forgot.”
Jeanne threw herself at his feet.
“Rise, madame,” said he, “I love all that bear the name of St. Luc.” Jeanne took his hand and kissed it, but he withdrew it quickly.
“You must convert the king,” said Chicot to the young woman, “you are pretty enough for it.”
But Henri turned his back to her, and passing his arm round St. Luc’s neck, said,—
“Then we have made peace, St. Luc?”
“Say rather, sire, that the pardon is granted.”
“Madame!” said Chicot, “a good wife should not leave her husband,” and he pushed her after the king and St. Luc.