Cartouche’s eyes were bright and nervous. He had not a full command of his lips.
The King smiled.
“Confounds you, Monsieur? How is that?”
“Daphne, Sire, if I am not mistaken, took refuge in a laurel tree, rather than suffer the god’s pursuit.”
“Bah!” The King shrugged his shoulders. “And she bewailed, I’ll swear, her foolish precipitancy for ever after. But the laurels in this case, Monsieur, are for your brow.”
“I do not feel like a conqueror, indeed.”
“Fie, fie, Monsieur! Is it necessary to remind M. Trix of his Cervantes? Faint hearts and fair ladies, forsooth. O, you have a character to maintain, I assure you! But certainly such beauty cuts the sinews of self-confidence. Well, it is no matter. You have only, as it happens, to receive the keys of the capitulated citadel.”
“I do not understand your Majesty, I declare.”
“Our Majesty, Monsieur, has already thrown the handkerchief for you, and one without a crown in its corner. That was a self-denying ordinance, for which we will not altogether insist on your gratitude. But, in plain language, sir, we desire this union, and have made no secret of our desire.”
“Sire!”