"Even a king can not give life to the dead," she replied, and her voice sounded hard and unyielding.
"No," he assented, moodily, "but it would not be impossible to restore the castle—to his daughter."
"Sire!" she exclaimed in surprise; then shook her head. "With your Majesty's permission, I shall leave with the emperor."
Francis made an impatient movement; her inflexibility recalled one who long ago had renounced his fealty to the throne; her resistance kindled the flame that had been smoldering in his breast.
"But if I have pointed out to the emperor that your proper station is here?" he went on. "If he recognizes that it would be to your disadvantage to divert that destiny which lies in France?"
His words were measured; his manner tinged with seeming paternal interest; but, as through a mask, she discerned his face, cynical, libidinous, the countenance of a Sybarite, not a king. The air became stifling; the ribaldry of laughter enveloped her; instinctively she glanced around, and her restless, troubled gaze fell upon the duke.
What was it he read in her eyes? A confession of insecurity, fear; a mute appeal? Before it all his doubts and misgivings vanished; the look they exchanged was like that when she had stood on the staircase in the inn.
Upon the monarch, engrossed in his purpose, it was lost. If silence give consent, then had she already acquiesced in a wish which, from a king, became a demand. But Francis, ever complaisant, with an inconsistent chivalry worthy of the subterfuge of his character, desired to appear forbearing, indulgent.
"For your own sake," he added, "must we refuse that permission you ask of us."
She did not answer, and, noting the direction of her gaze, the eager expectancy written on her face, Francis turned sharply. At the same time the duke stepped forward.