“Then he does not fight this morning?”
St. Luc cast a reproachful glance on the king, who turned away his head, and, in doing so, saw Crillon still standing at the door. He signed to him to bring in the duke.
“No, sire, he will not fight,” said St. Luc; “and that is why I ask, not for vengeance—I was wrong to call it so—but for justice. I love my king, and am, above all things, jealous of his honor, and I think that it is a deplorable service which they have rendered to your majesty by killing M. de Bussy.”
The Duc d’Anjou had just entered, and St. Luc’s words had enlightened the king as to the service his brother had boasted of having rendered him.
“Do you know what they will say?” continued St. Luc. “They will say, if your friends conquer, that it is because they first murdered Bussy.”
“And who will dare to say that?”
“Pardieu! everyone,” said Crillon.
“No, monsieur, they shall not say that,” replied the king, “for you shall point out the assassin.”
“I will name him, sire, to clear your majesty from so heinous an accusation,” said St. Luc.
“Well! do it.”