“Par la Mort Dieu! What is this sudden concern for the Admiral?”
“Not sudden, my son,” she answered in her dull voice, her eyes intent upon him, with something magnetic in their sleepy glance that seemed to rob him of half his will. “None knows more accurately than I the Admiral's precise, value to France.”
Anjou behind her may have smiled at that equivocal phrase.
“God's Bowels! Am I King, or what am I?”
“It ill becomes a king to abuse the strength of a poor wounded subject,” she returned, her eyes ever regarding him steadily. “Come, Charles. Another day, when the Admiral shall have recovered more fully, you may continue this discourse. Come now.”
His anger was subdued to mere sullenness, almost infantile in its outward petulant expression. He attempted to meet her glance, and he was completely lost.
“Perhaps... Ah, Ventre Dieu, my mother is right! Let the matter rest, then, my father. We will talk of it again as soon as you are well.”
He stepped up to the couch, and held out his hand.
Coligny took it, and his eyes looked up wistfully into the weak young face of his King.
“I thank you, Sire, for coming and for hearing me. Another day, if I am spared, I may tell you more. Meanwhile, bear well in mind what I have said already. I have no interests in this world but your own, Sire.” And he kissed the royal hand in farewell.