“Is it possible! Do we know them?”
“The Comte de Saint-Vallier, Sire, is the principal accomplice.”
“What! Saint-Vallier, the Captain of our Archers! That strikes us nearly. This conspiracy, my lords,” says Francis, advancing to where Guise, La Trémouille, Montmorenci, and the others stand somewhat apart during his conversation with Bonnivet, “is much more serious than I imagined. I must remain in France to wait the issue of events. You, Bonnivet, must take command of the Italian campaign.”
Bonnivet kneels and kisses the hand of Francis.
“I am sorry for Jean de Poitiers,” continues Francis, turning to Guise. “Are the proofs against him certain?”
“Sire, Saint-Vallier accompanied the Constable to the frontier.”
“I am sorry,” repeats the King, and he passes his hand thoughtfully over his brow and muses.
“Jean de Poitiers, my ci-devant Captain of the Guards, is the father of a charming lady; Madame Diane, the Seneschale of Normandy, is an angel, though her husband, De Brèzè—hum—why, he is a monster. Vulcan and Venus—the old story, eh, my lords?”
There is a general laugh.
A page enters and announces a lady humbly