Not until they were back in the Louvre did the Queen attempt to break upon the King's gloomy abstraction, to learn—as learn she must—the subject of the Admiral's confidential communication.
Accompanied by Anjou, she sought him in his cabinet, nor would she be denied. He sat at his writing-table, his head sunken between his shoulders, his receding chin in his cupped palms. He glared at the pair as they entered, swore savagely, and demanded their business with him.
Catherine sat down with massive calm. Anjou remained standing beside and slightly behind her, leaning upon the back of her tall chair.
“My son,” she said bluntly, “I have come to learn what passed between you and Coligny.”
“What passed? What concern is that of yours?”
“All your concerns are mine,” she answered tranquilly. “I am your mother.”
“And I am your king!” he answered, banging the table. “And I mean to be king!”
“By the grace of God and the favour of Monsieur de Coligny,” she sneered, with unruffled calm.
“What's that?” His mouth fell open, and his eyes stared. A crimson flush overspread his muddy complexion. “What's that?”
Her dull glance met and held his own whilst calmly she repeated her sneering words.