She considered every word he said, and dubbed him Democritus, her laughing philosopher.
‘You will have need of my sect in Scotland, madam,’ he replied with a bow. ‘Despise it not; for in that grey country the very skies invite us to mingle tears. You have a weeper beside you even now—the Lord Heraclitus, a king’s son.’
She had no difficulty in discovering her stiff brother James under this thin veil.
All was going on thus well with my Lord of Bothwell when Mary Livingstone heard him rate his page in the forecourt one morning as she came back from the mass. She caught sight also of ‘his inflamed and wicked face,’ and saw the little French boy flinch and turn his shoulder to a flood of words, of which she understood not half. She guessed at them from the rest. ‘They must needs be worse; and yet how can they be? And oh! the poor little Stoic with his white face!’ The good girl snapped her lips together as she hurried on. ‘He shall see as little of my bonny Queen as I can provide for,’ she promised herself. ‘I have heard sculduddery enough to befoul all Burgundy.’ Being a wise virgin, she said little to her mistress save to urge her to beg the French boy from his master.
‘Why do you want him, child?’ the Queen asked.
‘He hath a steadfast look, and loves you. I think he will serve your needs. Get him if you care,’ was all the reply she could win.
The thing was easily done, lightly asked and lightly accorded.
‘Baptist, come hither,’ had cried my lord; and the boy knelt before the lady. ‘I have sold thee, Baptist.’
‘Very good, monseigneur.’
The Queen sparkled and smiled upon him. ‘Wilt thou come with me, Jean-Marie?’