Outside, he stopped and reflected.
“I must see this conspiracy to the bottom,” said he to himself. “I must find out through whom and by what they wish to destroy her; and I must have sure and undeniable proof in my hands, in order to be able to convict them, and successfully accuse them to the king. Therefore it is necessary to be cautious and prudent. So let us consider what to do. The simplest thing would be to beg the queen not to wear the rosette. But that is only to demolish the web for this time, without, however, being able to kill the spider that wove it. So she must wear the rosette; for besides, without that I should never be able either to find out to whom she is to give it. But the paper that is concealed in the rosette—that I must have—that must not be in it. ‘If the king finds this paper. Catharine’s death-warrant is signed.’ Now, my reverend priest of the devil, the king will not find that paper, for John Heywood will not have it so. But how shall I begin? Shall I tell the queen what I heard? No! She would lose her cheerful spirit and become embarrassed, and the embarrassment would be in the king’s eyes the most convincing proof of her guilt. No, I must take this paper out of the rosette without the queen’s being aware of it. Boldly to work, then! I must have this paper, and tweak these hypocrites by the nose. How it can be done, it is not clear to me yet; but I will do it—that is enough. Halloo, forward to the queen!”
With precipitant haste he ran through the halls and corridors, while with a smile he muttered away to himself: “Thank God, I enjoy the honor of being the fool; for only the king and the fool have the privilege of being able to enter unannounced every room, even the queen’s.”
Catharine was alone in her boudoir, when the small door, through which the king was accustomed to resort to her, was softly opened.
“Oh, the king is coming!” said she, walking to the door to greet her husband.
“Yes, the king is coming, for the fool is already here,” said John Heywood, who entered through the private door. “Are we alone, queen? Does nobody overhear us?”
“No, John Heywood, we are all alone. What do you bring me?”
“A letter, queen.”
“From whom?” asked she, and a glowing crimson flitted over her cheek.
“From whom?” repeated John Heywood, with a waggish smile. “I do not know, queen; but at any rate it is a begging letter; and without doubt you would do well not to read it at all; for I bet you, the shameless writer of this letter demands of you some impossibility—it may be a smile, or a pressure of the hand, a lock of your hair, or perchance even a kiss. So, queen, do not read the begging letter at all.”