"The king said, my dear friend: 'That is well!' and a smile of satisfaction hovered upon his lips. Then, when I was enlarging upon the magnificence of your feats of arms, and upon the obligations which you had laid upon France and her king, 'Enough of that!' Henri interposed, and haughtily changing the subject of conversation, compelled me to speak of something else."
"Yes, that is just as I supposed it would be," said Gabriel, with bitter irony.
"Courage, my friend!" rejoined the admiral. "Do you not remember that at St. Quentin I warned you that it was not safe to rely upon the gratitude of the great ones of the world?"
"Oh, yes!" said Gabriel, threateningly; "it was all very well for the king to choose to forget when he hoped that I was dead or in prison; but when I remind him of my rights, as I propose to do very soon, he will find that he has got to remember."
"And suppose his memory persists in being defective?" asked Monsieur de Coligny.
"Monsieur l'Amiral," said Gabriel, "when one has undergone an insult, one applies to the king to see justice done. When the king himself offers the insult, one has no resource but to apply to God for vengeance."
"I imagine, too," the admiral rejoined, "that if it should be necessary, you would constitute yourself the instrument of the divine vengeance."
"You have said it, Monsieur."
"In that case," Coligny resumed, "there is no better place nor time than the present to remind you of a conversation we once had on the subject of the persecuted religion, when I spoke to you of a sure means of punishing kings, while serving the cause of truth at the same time."
"Oh, yes! our conversation was just in my mind," said Gabriel. "My memory does not fail me, you see. I may at some time resort to your means, Monsieur,—against Henri's successors perhaps, if not against himself, since your remedy is equally efficacious against all kings."