“Madame,” answered Sancerre, “if those swords had not been drawn, the Admiral’s letter would never have reached.”
She began to play with the poniard at her girdle, and to bite her under lip. Cipierre stood grim and silent, and Sancerre watched her with an odd smile on his face, half-amused, half-sarcastic, as he waited for his reply; but, none coming, he continued:
“Would your Majesty prefer our taking our orders on these matters from the Duke of Guise, or the Cardinal of Lorraine?”
“Mille démons!” muttered Cipierre, and the Queen said, in an icy voice:
“As the matter is urgent I will deal with it now. The Princess must not come to Orleans, you understand, and the Constable should be warned that he comes at his peril.”
“This will be done, but Anne de Montmorenci will take the risk.”
“That is his affair!” She shrugged her shoulders; yet there was a momentary flash of triumph in her eyes. She had got the news she wanted, the certainty that the Constable would move; and now, as if to end the interview, she said:
“This is all, gentlemen, is it not?”
“All, madame, except one thing. We have two prisoners here, who voluntarily surrender to your Majesty, and beseech your mercy toward them.”
At these words both Marcilly and I started, but Sancerre gave us a warning glance, and gripped Cipierre by the arm, as if to restrain him from speech.