Henry laughed grimly at his minister’s incredulity, and plucked forth the letter from Vaucelas.
“Read that.”
Sully read, and, aghast at what the letter told him, ejaculated: “They must be mad!”
“Oh, no,” said the King. “They are not mad. They are most wickedly sane, which is why their designs fill me with apprehension. What do you infer, Grand-Master, from such deliberate plots against resolutions from which they know that nothing can turn me while I have life?”
“What can I infer?” quoth Sully, aghast.
“In acting thus—in daring to act thus,” the King expounded, “they proceed as if they knew that I can have but a short time to live.”
“Sire!”
“What else? They plan events which cannot take place until I am dead.”
Sully stared at his master for a long moment, in stupefied silence, his loyal Huguenot soul refusing to discount by flattery the truth that he perceived.
“Sire,” he said at last, bowing his fine head, “you must take your measures.”