"Pardon me, madame," said La Mole, "if I did not salute your majesty at first with all the respect which you have a right to expect from one of your humblest servants, but"—
"You took me for one of my ladies?" said Marguerite.
"No, madame; but for the shade of the beautiful Diane de Poitiers, who is said to haunt the Louvre."
"Come, sir," said Marguerite, "I see you will make your fortune at court; you said you had a letter for the king, it was not needed, but no matter! Where is it? I will give it to him—only make haste, I beg of you."
In a twinkling La Mole threw open his doublet, and drew from his breast a letter enveloped in silk.
Marguerite took the letter, and glanced at the writing.
"Are you not Monsieur de la Mole?" asked she.
"Yes, madame. Oh, mon Dieu! Can I hope my name is known to your majesty?"
"I have heard the king, my husband, and the Duc d'Alençon, my brother, speak of you. I know they expect you."
And in her corsage, glittering with embroidery and diamonds, she slipped the letter which had just come from the young man's doublet and was still warm from the vital heat of his body. La Mole eagerly watched Marguerite's every movement.