“My poor St. Luc, what is it? You seem in despair.”
“Sire, one of your subjects, the bravest, noblest, has been murdered this night—traitorously murdered!”
“Of whom do you speak?”
“Sire, you do not love him, I know; but he was faithful, and, if need were, would have shed all his blood for your majesty, else he would not have been my friend.”
“Ah!” said the king, who began to understand; and something like a gleam of joy passed over his face.
“Vengeance, sire, for M. de Bussy!”
“M. de Bussy?”
“Yes, M. de Bussy, whom twenty assassins poniarded last night. He killed fourteen of them.”
“M. de Bussy dead?”
“Yes, sire.”