Pique, umbrage, mingled in the expression which replaced all other feeling on the king's countenance as he heard this announcement. With manifest displeasure he looked from one to the other.
"Is this true, Mademoiselle?" he asked, sternly.
Her cheek was red, but she held herself bravely.
"Yes, Sire," she said.
A new emotion leaped to the duke's face as he heard her lips thus fearlessly confirm the answer of her eyes. And so before the monarch—in that court which Marguerite called the Court of Love—they plighted their troth.
Something in their manner, however, puzzled the observant king; an exaltation, perhaps, uncalled for by the simple telling of a secret understanding between them; that rapid interchange of glances; that significance of manner when the duke stepped to her side. Francis bit his lips.
"Ma foi!" he exclaimed, sharply. "This is somewhat abrupt. How long, my Lord, since she promised to be your wife?"
"Since your Majesty spoke," returned the duke, tranquilly.
"And before that?"
"Before? I only knew that I loved her, Sire."