“And now, monseigneur, be prudent,” said he.
“How so?”
“Do not run about the streets with Aurilly, as you did just now.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean that, this evening, you pursued with your love a woman whom her husband adores, and whom he is jealous of, enough to kill any one who approaches her without permission.”
“Is it of you and your wife that you are speaking?”
“Yes, monseigneur. I have married Diana de Méridor; she is mine, and no one shall have her while I live—not even a prince; I swear it by my name and on this poniard!” and he touched with his poniard the breast of the prince, who started back.
“Monsieur, you menace me!” cried François, pale with rage.
“No, monseigneur; once more, I say, I only warn you.”
“Of what?”