“The King,” said Cipierre, “will soon need no earthly sword to protect him. He is dying.”
“Dying! Is it as bad as that?”
“Yes, Monsieur de Vibrac. It is a matter of days only, I fear, and after that—well, I am an old man, and I have served them for fifty years; but with his death it is an end to the Valois.”
“Monsieur, how can that be? There are the other Princes.”
“Leaves drop from a dead tree, monsieur.”
“And to compare it with other things, I have known an eagle take a lamb before.”
It was Marcilly who spoke, and, at this reference to the crest of Guise, Cipierre swore under his moustache; and I went on with the talk, saying:
“It appears to me that the eagle must reckon with Bourbon.”
“The account is almost made up,” said Sancerre; “the ambition of Catherine and the folly of the Constable have played well into the hands of Guise. The Bourbon is a dead legend, unless a miracle were to happen. Navarre is a fool and a sot. Montpensier has been bought with the pears of Touraine, and La Roche-sur-Yonne with the quinces of the Orléanais. There remains only Condé, and his head falls on the 10th. After that, Cipierre, you and I, and all of us, must bend the knee to King Francis the Third.”
“Never!” exclaimed Cipierre; “never!” and he struck his open palm on the table. “Why! I remember Claude of Lorraine a mere gentleman of the Court—and his son King! Never!”