“But his Majesty’s passion for her is so unconcealed. Perhaps, Marshal, the King understood that this marriage must break up your ancient friendship?”
Bassompierre scowls, but makes no reply.
“The King has grown young again,” continues Roquelaure. “Our noble Henri Quatre,—he orders new clothes every day, wears embroidered collars, sleeves of carnation satin—(I brought in the mode)” and he glances at his own—“and scents and perfumes his hair and beard. We are to have another tournament to-morrow in honour of the marriage of the Prince de Condé—in reality to show off a suit of armour his Majesty has received from Milan. Will you have the heart to be present, Marshal?”
“Yes, Duke, I shall attend his Majesty as usual,” replies Bassompierre, turning away with an offended air.
“Come, Marshal, between such old friends as you and I these airs of distance are absurd”; and the Duke lays his hand on the other’s arm to detain him. “Own to me honestly that this marriage with the Prince de Condé gives you great concern——”
Bassompierre hangs down his head and plays with his sword-knot. “I should have desired a better husband for her, truly,” answers he in a low voice. “The Prince is a shabby fellow, with an evil temper. I fear Mademoiselle de Montmorenci can never affect him,” and a deep sigh escapes him.
“Never, never,” rejoins Roquelaure, looking round to note who arrives, “it is an ill-assorted union. You, Bassompierre, would have loved her well. It was possible she might have reformed your manners. Ha! I have you there, Marshal. Pardon my joke,” adds he, as he sees a dark scowl again gathering on the Marshal’s face. “But Condé, the rustre, he hates women—I never saw him address one in his life; a cold, austere fellow, as solitary as an owl; a miser, and silent too—if he does speak he is rude and ungracious; and with the temper of a fiend. If he does right, it is only through obstinacy. I am told he suspects the lady already, and has set spies to watch her. A pretty match for the fair Montmorenci truly, who has lived with a sovereign at her feet.”
“Duke,” cries Bassompierre fiercely, secretly writhing under the Duke’s malicious probing of a heart-wound which still bled, “I have already observed that any inuendoes touching Mademoiselle de Montmorenci displease me.”
“Inuendoes! why, Marshal, even Condé confessed the other day that rich as was the prize, and surpassing the lady, he hesitated to accept ‘one whom the King’s attention had made so notorious!’ ”
Bassompierre’s eyes flash. He is about to make an angry rejoinder when a page approaches and summons them to attend his Majesty.