Sully shook his head and cast up his hands.
“God help us!” muttered he.
“Never was anything more dreadful,” continued the King. “My beloved Charlotte was lured from Muret under the pretence of a hunting-party. She was to be carried to the rendezvous in a coach. The dear creature started before daylight, says Laperrière’s son, and as the morning broke, found herself in a strange part of the country—in a plain far from the forest. She stopped the coach, and called to Virrey, who rode by the door, and asked him whither they were going? Virrey, confused, said he would ride on and ask the Prince, who was in advance, leading the way, the cowardly scoundrel!” and Henry shook his fist in the air. “My nephew came up, and told her she was on her road to Breda, upon which the sweet soul screamed aloud, says Laperrière, and lamented, entreating to be allowed to return. But that ruffian, Condé, rode off and left her in the middle of the road, bidding the driver push forward. At last they came to Couçy, where they changed horses. Just as they were about again to start the coach broke down.”
“Praised be God!” ejaculated Sully. “I hope no one was found to mend it.”
“Sully, I believe you are without heart or feeling,” cried the King, reproachfully.
“Not at all, Sire; but my heart and my feelings also are with your Majesty, not with the Princess. Proceed, Sire, with this touching narrative.”