“Cap de Dieu!” cried Chicot, “the right cause will triumph at last.”
“Yes,” replied Bellegarde, “sooner or later we shall see our brave King enter Paris and his noble palace of the Louvre in state; but meanwhile he must not fool away his time in follies and amours while the League is in strength.”
“There you speak truth,” said Chicot; “he is too much given to such games; he’s a very Sardanapalus: and,” continued he, squinting at the Don with a most comical expression, “if report speak true, at this very moment his Majesty is off on some adventure touching the rival beauty of certain ladies, to the manifest neglect of his Crown and the ruin of his affairs.”
“Ah!” exclaimed Gabrielle, her eyes sparkling with enthusiasm, “if some second Agnes Sorel would but appear, and, making like her a noble use of the King’s love and her influence, incite him to conquer himself, to forsake all follies, and to devote his great talents in fighting heart and soul against the rebels and the League!”
“Alas!” sighed Don Juan, “those were the early ages; such love as that is not to be found now—it is a dream, a fantasy. Henry will find no Agnes Sorel in these later days.”
“Say not so, noble Don,” replied Gabrielle; “I for my part adore the King—I long to know him.”
The Spaniard’s eyes flashed, and Bellegarde started visibly.
“Love,” continued Gabrielle, flushing with excitement, “love is of all times and of all seasons. True love is immortal. But I allow that it is rare, though not impossible, to excite such a passion.”
“If it is a science to be learnt, will you teach me, fair lady?” asked the Spaniard tenderly.
At this turn in the conversation Bellegarde again became painfully agitated, and the subject dropped. The Don now addressed his conversation to the sisters of Gabrielle, and at their request took up the lute and sang an improvised song with considerable taste, in a fine manly voice, which gained for him loud applauses all around. The words were these: