“Listen to me,” said the king; “if your friends compromise you, it is not Monsieur’s fault.”
He spoke these words with so much kindness that Madame, encouraged, having borne so many solitary griefs so long, was nearly bursting into tears, so full was her heart.
“Come, come, dear little sister,” said the king, “tell me your griefs; on the word of a brother, I pity them; on the word of a king, I will put an end to them.”
She raised her glorious eyes and, in a melancholy tone:
“It is not my friends who compromise me,” said she; “they are either absent or concealed; they have been brought into disgrace with your majesty; they, so devoted, so good, so loyal!”
“You say this on account of De Guiche, whom I have exiled, at Monsieur’s desire?”
“And who, since that unjust exile, has endeavored to get himself killed once every day.”
“Unjust, say you, sister?”
“So unjust, that if I had not had the respect mixed with friendship that I have always entertained for your majesty—”
“Well!”