"Well?" asked D'Alençon in a trembling voice.
"Well, the devil! it is yours."
D'Alençon turned frightfully pale; then suddenly the blood rushed from his heart, which almost burst, flowed to his face, and his cheeks became suffused with a burning flush. The favor the King granted him at that moment threw him into despair.
"But, sire," said he, trembling with emotion and trying in vain to recover his self-possession, "I never desired and certainly never asked for such a thing."
"That is possible," said the King, "for you are very discreet, brother; but it has been desired and asked for you."
"Sire, I swear to you that never"—
"Do not swear."
"But, sire, are you going to exile me, then?"
"Do you call this exile, François? Plague it, you are hard to please! What better do you hope for?"
D'Alençon bit his lips in despair.