“It is true, but——”
“But I am the doctor of the mind as of the body; it is not your residence here that displeases you.”
“What then?”
“That of madame; therefore send her away.”
“Separate?” cried Monsoreau, fixing on Diana a look, more of anger than love.
“Then give up your place—send in your resignation. I believe it would be wise; if you do not do your duty, you will displease the king, and if you do——”
“I will do anything but quit the countess,” said Monsoreau, with closely-shut teeth. As he spoke, they heard in the courtyard a noise of voices and horses’ feet.
“The duke again!” cried he.
“Yes,” said Rémy.
Immediately after the prince entered, and Monsoreau saw his first glance given to Diana. He brought to her, as a present, one of those masterpieces, of which the artists of that day were in the habit of producing two or three in the course of a lifetime. It was a poniard, with a handle of chased gold. This handle was a smelling-bottle, and on the blade a chase was carved with admirable skill; horses, dogs, trees, game, and hunters, mingled together in an harmonious pêle-mêle, on this blade of azure and gold.