"Unworthy of you, it is true," said the duchess.
"Oh, no, not of me!" cried the count; "and if the day should ever come—"
But Diane interrupted him with an air of grave melancholy and well assumed dignity,—
"Enough, Monsieur de Montgommery; let us put an end to this interview, I beg."
She bowed coldly, and turned away, leaving the poor count a prey to a whirl of conflicting emotions,—jealousy, love, hatred, grief, and joy. So Diane saw the adoration which made him bow down before her. But perhaps he had wounded her! He must have seemed unjust, ungrateful, cruel to her! He repeated to himself over and over again all the sublime nonsense of love.
The next day Diane de Poitiers said to François I., "You didn't know, did you, Sire, that Monsieur de Montgommery was in love with me?"
"What's that?" said François, laughing. "The Montgommerys are of an ancient family, and almost as nobly born, upon my word, as I; and what's more they are almost as brave, and now it seems that they are almost as good at love-making."
"And is that all the reply that your Majesty has to make to me?" Diane asked him.
"And what do you want me to say, my dear?" replied the king. "Do you really think that I ought to take it ill of the Comte de Montgommery that he has as good taste and as good eyes as I have?"
"If Madame d'Étampes were in question," muttered Diane, wounded to the quick, "you would not say so."