“It is said, Prince, that you have plenty of Spanish doubloons at Chantilly,” returns Sully significantly.
“It is false—tales to ruin me. Ever since my marriage I have been pursued by informers. It was by his Majesty’s command I married. Now he desires to seduce my wife—that is the truth. If I appear ungrateful, there is my reason.”
“His Majesty assures me, Prince,” breaks in Sully, “that his sentiments towards your illustrious consort are those of a father.”
“A father! Why, then, does he come disguised to Chantilly? He has been seen hiding in the woods there and at Muret. A pretty father, indeed! By the grace of God, I will submit to the tyranny of no such a father. It is a thraldom unbecoming my birth, my position, and my honour! While the King acts thus I will not come to Court, to be an object of pity and contempt!”
“You speak of tyranny, Prince, towards yourself. It may be well for your highness to consider, however, that the King, my master, has to a certain extent justified your accusation.” Condé looks up at him keenly. “But it is tyranny exercised in your favour, Monsieur le Prince, not to your prejudice.”
Sully’s eyes are bent upon the Prince. While he speaks a half smile flitters about his mouth.
“I do not understand you, Duke. Explain yourself,” replies Condé, with real or affected ignorance; but something in the expression of Sully’s face caused him to drop the tone of bravado he had hitherto assumed.
“His Majesty, Prince, has justified your accusation of tyranny by having hitherto insisted, nay even compelled, those about him to acknowledge you—well—for what you are not!”
Condé almost bounds from his seat. There was a horrible suspicion that his mother had shortened his father’s life, and this suspicion had cast doubts upon his legitimacy.
Sully sits back in his chair and contemplates Condé at his ease.