“Good-day, my children,” said the king.
“Sire,” replied his daughter in a low voice, as she embraced him, “I want to speak to you in secret.”
Louis XI. appeared not to have heard her. He turned to the door and called out in a hollow voice, “Hola, Dufou!”
Dufou, seigneur of Montbazon and grand cup-bearer of France, entered in haste.
“Go to the maitre d’hotel, and tell him I must have salt mackerel for dinner. And go to Madame de Beaujeu, and let her know that I wish to dine alone to-day. Do you know, madame,” continued the king, pretending to be slightly angry, “that you neglect me? It is almost three years since I have seen you. Come, come here, my pretty,” he added, sitting down and holding out his arms to her. “How thin you have grown! Why have you let her grow so thin?” said the king, roughly, addressing the Comte de Poitiers.
The jealous husband cast so frightened a look at his wife that she almost pitied him.
“Happiness, sire!” he stammered.
“Ah! you love each other too much,—is that it?” said the king, holding his daughter between his knees. “I did right to call you Mary-full-of-grace. Coyctier, leave us! Now, then, what do you want of me?” he said to his daughter the moment the doctor had gone. “After sending me your—”
In this danger, Marie boldly put her hand on the king’s lips and said in his ear,—
“I always thought you cautious and penetrating.”