"Why, the devil! it seems that the fellow boasts of it. He goes sometimes to your wife's apartments in the Louvre, sometimes to the Rue Cloche Percée. They compose verses together. I should like to see the stanzas that fop writes. Pastorales they are. They discuss Bion and Moschus, and read first Daphne and then Corydon. Ah! take a good dagger with you!"
"Sire," said Henry, "upon reflection"—
"What?"
"Your Majesty will see that I cannot join such an expedition. It seems to me it would be inconvenient to be there in person. I am too much interested in the affair to take any calm part in it. Your Majesty will avenge the honor of your sister on a coxcomb who boasts of having calumniated my wife; nothing is simpler, and Marguerite, whom I hold to be innocent, sire, is in no way dishonored. But were I of the party, it would be a different thing. My co-operation would convert an act of justice into an act of revenge. It would no longer be an execution, but an assassination. My wife would no longer be calumniated, but guilty."
"By Heaven, Henry, as I said just now to my mother, you speak words of wisdom. You have a devilishly quick mind."
And Charles gazed complacently at his brother-in-law, who bowed in return for the compliment.
"Nevertheless," added Charles, "you are willing to be rid of this coxcomb, are you not?"
"Everything your Majesty does is well done," replied the King of Navarre.
"Well, well, let me do your work for you. You may be sure it shall not be the worse for it."
"I leave it to you, sire," said Henry.