“Cordieu!” cried Crillon, “why am I not king?”
“They insult me before you, brother,” said the duke, pale with terror.
“Leave us, Crillon,” said the king. The officer obeyed.
“Justice, sire, justice!” cried St. Luc again.
“Sire,” said the duke, “will you punish me for having served your majesty’s friends this morning?”
“And I,” cried St. Luc, “I say that the cause which you espouse is accursed, and will be pursued by the anger of God. Sire, when your brother protects our friends, woe to them.” The king shuddered.
Then they heard hasty steps and voices, followed by a deep silence; and then, as if a voice from heaven came to confirm St. Luc’s words, three blows were struck slowly and solemnly on the door by the vigorous arm of Crillon. Henri turned deadly pale.
“Conquered,” cried he; “my poor friends!”
“What did I tell you, sire?” cried St. Luc. “See how murder succeeds.”
But the king saw nothing, heard nothing; he buried his face in his hands, and murmured. “Oh! my poor friends; who will tell me about them?”