'What, Madame Marguerite, are you on his side? A plot, I declare, a plot! a plot!'
Laying her hand on her brother's shoulder, she whispered:—'Do you not see? He still loves her!'
'But she is dead!'
'Do men never love the dead? You said yourself she lived in her portrait! Leave him his memorial of her. Do not afflict the old man!'
Francis had a dim recollection of having somewhere heard of eternal unions of soul, of fidelity, of love that had no grossness in it. He felt inspired by magnanimity.
'You have a sweet intercessor, Maître Léonard. Be of good cheer. I will do as you ask; only remember the picture belongs to me, and you shall receive the money at once.'
Something wistful and plaintive in Leonardo's eyes touched the king, and he tapped him good-naturedly.
'Fear not! I give you my word! None shall part you from your Lisa!'
Marguerite smiled and her eyes shone. She gave her hand to the painter, who kissed it fervently and in silence.
The band struck up and dancing began. No one thought any more of the uncourtly guest, who had come in like a shadow and vanished again into the starless night.