“Is the queen reproving me?” said Catherine, turning to Mary.
“I owe you all respect, and should not dare to do so,” said the Scottish queen, maliciously, glancing at Dayelle.
Placed between the rival queens, the favorite waiting-woman stood rigid as an andiron; a smile of comprehension might have cost her her life.
“Can I be as gay as you, after losing the late king, and now beholding my son’s kingdom about to burst into flames?”
“Public affairs do not concern women,” said Mary Stuart. “Besides, my uncles are there.”
These words were, under the circumstances, like so many poisoned arrows.
“Let us look at our furs, madame,” replied the Italian, sarcastically; “that will employ us on our legitimate female affairs while your uncles decide those of the kingdom.”
“Oh! but we will go the Council, madame; we shall be more useful than you think.”
“We!” said Catherine, with an air of astonishment. “But I do not understand Latin, myself.”
“You think me very learned,” cried Mary Stuart, laughing, “but I assure you, madame, I study only to reach the level of the Medici, and learn how to cure the wounds of the kingdom.”