"Sire," she pleaded, "you promised to hear me."
"That I will, then. But I warn you I am out of patience with these St. Quentins."
"Then you are out of patience with devotion to your cause, Sire."
"What! you speak for the recreants?"
"I assure you, Sire, you have no more loyal servant than M. de Mar."
"Strange I cannot recollect the face of my so loyal servant," the king said dryly.
But she, with a fine scorn of argument, made the audacious answer:
"When you see it, you will like it, Sire."
"Not half so well as I like yours, mademoiselle, I promise you! But he comes to me well commended, since you vouch for him. Or rather, he does not come. What is this ardent follower doing so long away from me? Where the devil does this eager partizan keep himself? St. Quentin, where is your son?"
"He had been with you long ago, Sire, but for the bright eyes of a lady of the League. And now she comes to tell me—my page tells me—he is in the Bastille."