“What!” cried the King angrily. “Have you not got it?”
“No, Sire. They were carefully searched, but it was not found.”
“Then he shall be forced to confess where it is.”
“I have not told your Majesty all yet,” said the chamberlain.
“Then why have you not?” cried the King fiercely. “Speak out, man; speak out!”
“Your Majesty checked me,” replied the chamberlain deprecatingly, “The Comte was—”
“The Comte!” cried the King contemptuously.
“Then this member of the Valois family, as you believe he is.”
“But no—absurd! Let him be the Comte de la Seine; one who has come here under false pretences, a pretender. Whoever he is, he is my enemy, fate has placed him in my hands, and he shall die—ay, if it costs me a war with France. But mark me well—he dies as the thief who under the mask of a French nobleman entered my palace to plunder. The world shall see in this matter only the just punishment of a crime.” And as he spoke the King drew towards him paper and seized a pen. “Short and sharp punishment,” he said, “and in thus acting I clear the way to the throne which by rights is mine.”
The chamberlain stretched out his hand in an imploring gesture, the while a mocking smile played about the King’s lips.