“Whatever comes out of those ruby lips will not fail of being heard; as to your slave Henry, the very knowledge that such a divinity stoops to interest herself in his fate will serve as a talisman to shield him from every danger.”
“Your Majesty speaks like a poet,” and a soft laugh was heard out of the darkness. “Now adieu, Sire! I wish you a safe journey wherever you go, and may you prevail against your foes. When you see Monsieur de Bellegarde, assure him of my love.”
“Ungrateful Gabrielle! thus to trifle with me. But I have proofs, vrai Dieu! I have proofs that shall cure you of that attachment.”
“Sire, why should you seek to make me unhappy? You know that for years I have been engaged to Bellegarde, and that I look forward to my marriage with the utmost delight. Why, then, endeavour to separate us?”
“Par exemple, ma belle, you give me credit for being vastly magnanimous, upon my word! What then, Gabrielle, would you have me resign you without a struggle?—nay, am I expected to bring about your marriage with a rival? That is a little too much, forsooth!”
“Nenni, Sire; I only ask you not to prevent it. Such artifice would be unworthy so generous a monarch to a faithful servant like poor Bellegarde, to whom I am—” and she could not help again laughing, so dismal was the look of the King—“to whom I am bound in all honour. Then there is your Majesty’s wife, the Queen of Navarre—for, Sire, you seem to forget that you have a wife.”
“Yes, as I have a Crown, which I am never to wear. That infernal Marguerite is keeping her state with a vengeance, and forgetting, par Dieu, she has a husband. The people of Usson, in Auvergne, call shame on her; they know what she is better than I do.”
“Sire, I beg of you to speak at least with respect of Madame Marguerite de France.”
“Why should I not be frank with you, ma belle, at least? Ah, Margot, la reine Margot, à la bonne heure! I only wish she were in her coffin at Saint-Denis along with her brothers. I shall be quit of a wife altogether until I enter Paris, and then we shall see—we shall see who will be crowned with me. But, mignonne, I must indeed bid you adieu. Morbleu! my people will think I am lost, and besiege the château. Adieu until I can next come. I will write to you in the meantime. Remember to forget Bellegarde, as you value the favour of your Sovereign.”
And kissing the scarf he had stolen from her, the King put spurs to his horse and galloped away into the darkness.