“I am fully seventeen,” expostulated Madeleine, with a promptness that made both men laugh.
“Sire, Youth is a fault, which alas, travels continually with Time, its antidote,” said James. “If I have your good wishes in this project, on which, I confess, my heart is set, I shall at once approach the Duke of Montmorency and solicit his consent.”
The face of Francis had cleared as if a ray of sunshine had fallen upon it.
“The Duke of Montmorency!” he cried in astonishment; “what has he to do with the marriage of my daughter?”
James murmured something that may have been a prayer, but sounded otherwise, as he turned to the girl, whose delight at thus mystifying the great of earth was only too evident.
“I told him he little suspected who I was,” said Madeleine, with what might have been termed a giggle in one less highly placed; “but these confident Scots think they know everything. Indeed, it is all your own fault, father, in keeping me practically a prisoner, when the whole castle is throbbing with joy and festivity.” Then the irrepressible princess buried her flushed face in her hands, and laughed and laughed, as if this were the most irresistible comedy in the world, instead of a grave affair of state, until at last the two monarchs were forced to laugh in sympathy.
“I could not wish her a braver husband,” said Francis at last. “I see she has bewitched you as is her habit with all of us.”
And thus it came about that James the Fifth of Scotland married the fair Madeleine of France.