“I pardon you the past, messieurs—I give you the King’s Peace—the peace that the King himself knows not.”
Then we touched the thin hand with our lips, and, rising without a word, for there was something in the moment that took speech from us, stepped behind the group at the head of the bed, as the little King leaned back again on his pillows, all trace of the momentary strength in his face vanishing. Catherine turned toward us, as if about to give us the signal to go, when the King spoke again.
“My mother,” he said, “am I going to die?”
A look of pain came over the marble features of Catherine; she bent over the boy, as if to hide her features, and her voice was very low as she answered: “No, no, my son!”
And the child had become a child once more.
“I do not want to die,” he wailed. “I am King. Why should a King die?” He stopped and beckoned to Cipierre.
“Monsieur,” he said, as the Vicomte approached, “you are a brave soldier; you have fought many battles. You must save your King from death.”
The veteran half turned away as he answered:
“I, and all your soldiers, my King, would die to save you.”
“Then you will not let death come? It comes in the dark, monsieur; that is why I always have these lights. You must not let death come. You must stand there! There!” He pointed to the foot of the bed, and went on: “And my guards, who would die for me, must stand around, then death will not touch the King of France.”