“Sire,” she said, “I am pure and virtuous. You are jesting at—”
“Then,” said Louis XI., interrupting her, “as I am not to know the truth, I think Tristan had better clear it up.”
Marie turned pale, but she made a violent effort and cried out:—
“Sire, I assure you, you will regret all this. The so-called thief stole nothing. If you will grant me his pardon, I will tell you everything, even though you may punish me.”
“Ho, ho! this is getting serious,” cried the king, shoving up his cap. “Speak out, my daughter.”
“Well,” she said, in a low voice, putting her lips to her father’s ear, “he was in my room all night.”
“He could be there, and yet rob Cornelius. Two robberies!”
“I have your blood in my veins, and I was not born to love a scoundrel. That young seigneur is the nephew of the captain-general of your archers.”
“Well, well!” cried the king; “you are hard to confess.”
With the words the king pushed his daughter from his knee, and hurried to the door of the room, but softly on tiptoe, making no noise. For the last moment or two, the light from a window in the adjoining hall, shining through a space below the door, had shown him the shadow of a listener’s foot projected on the floor of his chamber. He opened the door abruptly, and surprised the Comte de Saint-Vallier eavesdropping.