"Sire, I am Lorance de Montluc. My grandfather was the Marshal Montluc."
"Were to-day next Monday, I could pray, 'God rest his soul,'" the king rejoined. "But even a heretic may say that he was a gallant general, an honour to France. He married a sister of François le Balafré? And mademoiselle is orphaned now, and my friend Mayenne's ward?"
"Yes, Sire. I came here, Sire, to tell M. de St. Quentin concerning his son. And though I am talking of myself, it is all the same story. Three years ago, after the king died, M. de Mayenne was endeavouring with all his might to bring the Duke of St. Quentin into the League. He offered me to him for his son, M. de Mar."
"And you are still Mlle. de Montluc?"
She turned to Monsieur with the prettiest smile in the world.
"M. de St. Quentin, though he has not fought for you, Sire, has ever been whole-heartedly loyal."
"Ventre-saint-gris!" the king exclaimed. "He is either an incredible loyalist or an incredible ass!"
Even the grave Rosny smiled, and the victim laughed as he defended himself.
"That my loyalty may be credible, Sire, I make haste to say that I had never seen mademoiselle till this hour."
"I know not whether to think better of you for that, or worse," the king retorted. "Had I been in your place, beshrew me but I should have seen her."