"Dying, Mademoiselle?" said Commines. "Who said he was dying? I know that even in Plessis there are those who waver, and would fly to Charles if they dared; but—dying? No! no! It would be the ruin of France."
"Oh, Monseigneur! what do I care for the ruin of France? Dawn on Sunday! Gaspard! Gaspard! not two days! Monsieur de Commines, I must see the King."
"The King? You?" he answered brusquely. "No, no; how could you see him?"
"Your King is not so great but Suzanne de Narbonne might be received."
"I know, Mademoiselle, I know; but it is precisely because you are Suzanne de Narbonne. Why destroy yourself? Your very name is fatal."
"Do you think, Monsieur, that if I were afraid for myself I would have ridden from Poictiers last night? He need not know my name."
"But I dare not risk it," and again he shook his head.
"Risk what, Monseigneur? Risk me, yourself, or the King?"
"All three," he answered—"all three. You cannot understand."
"Then what you dare not I will dare. In spite of you, Monsieur de Commines, I will force my way to the King, and if all three perish, they perish."