So they dressed her in white and green, with a crown of stars for her hair, and covered her in a carnation hood against the cold. Then she was brought out among the four of them to lean on the poop and see the people. A half-circle of stately, cloaked gentlemen—all French, and mainly Guises—stood behind; but Monsieur de Châtelard, shaking like a leaf, sought the prop of a neighbouring shoulder for his arm. It was modestly low, and belonged to Des-Essars, the new page.
‘My gentle youth,’ said the poet, after thanking him for his services, ‘I am sick because I love. Do you see that smothered goddess? Learn then that I adore her, and so was able to do even in the abominable arms of Monsieur de Brantôme.’
‘I also consider her Majesty adorable,’ replied the page with gravity; ‘but I do not care to say so openly.’
‘If your wound be not kept green,’ Monsieur de Châtelard reproved him, ‘if it is covered up, it mortifies, you bleed internally, and you die.’
Des-Essars bowed. ‘Why, yes, sir. There is no difficulty in that.’
‘Far from it, boy—far from it! Exquisite ease, rather.’
‘It is true, sir,’ said Des-Essars. ‘Well! I am ready.’
‘And I, boy, must get ready. Soothsayers have assured me that I shall die in that lady’s service.’
‘I intend to live in it,’ said Des-Essars; ‘for she chose me to it herself.’