"He was the greatest man in France," answered Monseigneur, with something like a sob in his throat. "He was the greatest King France ever knew. For eleven years he was my master and my friend—and he is dead."
"God be thanked!" I repeated, for my heart was very sore and very hard; how was it possible I could find pity for Louis of Valois? "If he was the greatest man in France, he was also the worst."
"What he was is for God's judgment, Mademoiselle, and it is my belief that Kings do not stand at the same bar as common men."
"But Gaspard? Monsieur de Commines, what of Gaspard?"
A shiver shook him as if he was chilly even in the August heat, but the lines of sorrow softened on his face.
"Take heart, Mademoiselle. Please God, we shall save him yet, or at least you shall."
"I? Oh, Monseigneur! God be thanked! God be thanked! But how? What must I do?"
"The King's death forgives the King's debt, Mademoiselle."
"Ah! Did I not say it was His finger! But who shall tell them in Poictiers, The King is dead?"
"You and Lesellè. Blaise is saddling the horses."