“Never fear, sweet; this will come about shortly. I am certain. There, are, however, more difficulties than you are aware of. If I become a Catholic, as all my nobles wish me to do—and beautiful France is well worth a mass—then the Calvinists will at once reorganise this cursed League; and, if I persist in my faith, which my poor mother reared me up to love sincerely—why then I shall be forsaken by all the Catholics; a fact they take care to remind me of every day of my life. Vrai Dieu! I only wish I were once again Prince of Navarre, free and joyous, fighting and hunting, dancing and jousting, without an acre of land, as I was formerly.”
“Sire, all will be well; be more sanguine, I entreat you. If my poor words have any power over you,” she added, encouragingly, “dismiss such gloomy thoughts. Believe me, the future has much in store for you and for me.”
“Ah! dear Gabrielle, when I am far away over mountains and valleys, separated from those lovely eyes that now beam so brightly on me, I feel all the torments of jealousy. Away from you, happiness is impossible.”
“Well, Sire, if it is only my presence you want, I will follow you to the end of the world—I will go anywhere;” Gabrielle spoke with impassioned ardour.
“Ma mie! it is this love alone that enables me to bear all the anxieties and troubles that surround me on every side. I value it more than the Crown of France; but this very love of yours, entire as I believe it to be, is the one principal cause of my misery.”
“How can that be?” answered she caressingly; “I love you—I will ever be constant, I swear it solemnly, Henry.”
“Yes,” replied he thoughtfully, “but I have promised you marriage—you must sit beside me as Queen of France. Do you forget that I have the honour of being the husband of a queen—the sister of three defunct monarchs—the most abandoned, the most disgraceful, the most odious——”
“Sire, you need not think about her; you are not obliged to be a witness of her disorders. Let her enjoy all her gallantries at the Castle of Usson. You can easily divorce her when you please——and then nothing can part us.”
“Ventre Saint Gris! cursed be the demon who dishonours me by calling herself my wife! that wretch who prevents my marrying the angel whom I love so entirely—your own sweet self!”
“Henry, my heart at least is yours.”