"Monsieur de la Mole?"
"Yes."
"Thank you," he said, taking the letter and putting it under his doublet; and, passing in front of his bewildered wife, he placed his hand on the shoulder of the Florentine.
"Well, Maître Réné!" he said, "and how go commercial affairs?"
"Pretty well, monseigneur,—pretty well," replied the poisoner, with his perfidious smile.
"I should think so," said Henry, "with men who, like you, supply all the crowned heads at home and abroad."
"Except the King of Navarre," replied the Florentine, impudently.
"Ventre saint gris, Maître Réné," replied the king, "you are right; and yet my poor mother, who also bought of you, recommended you to me with her dying breath. Come to me to-morrow, Maître Réné, or day after to-morrow, and bring your best perfumes."
"That would not be a bad notion," said Catharine, smiling; "for it is said"—
"That I need some perfumery," interrupted Henry, laughing; "who told you that, mother? Was it Margot?"