“What do they say at Paris, monsieur?” asked the prince sharply.
Monsoreau tried to calm himself. “How should a poor invalid, as I am, know?” said he. “If the king is angry at seeing his work badly done, he is wrong.”
“How so?”
“Because, doubtless, my accident proceeds, to some extent, from him.”
“Explain yourself.”
“M. de St. Luc, who wounded me, is a dear friend of the king’s. It was the king who taught him the thrust by which he wounded me, and it might have been the king who prompted him.”
“You are right; but still the king is the king.”
“Until he is so no longer.”
The duke trembled. “Is not Madame de Monsoreau here?” said he.
“Monseigneur, she is ill, or she would have come to present her respects to you.”