"What a queen—what a queen she would have made!"
But the sharp-witted old woman on the bed, catching the murmured words, turned them off with Italian quickness.
"Too late, my good Henry," she said, reaching out her hand; "you were born quite thirty years too late. Had you been King and I Queen—well, the world would have had news!"
She thought a little while, and then added:
"For one thing all men would have known—how stupid a man is the Fleming who calls himself King of Spain. We should have avenged Pavia, you and I, my Balafré, and Philip's ransom would have bought the children each a gown!"
But Valentine la Niña knew well of what the Duke of Guise had been thinking. She understood his words, but she gave him no chance of private speech. Nor did she send him any further warning. Once at Paris she had warned him fully, and he had chosen to disobey her. It was at his peril. And now, in Blois itself, she treated the popular idol and all-powerful captain with a chilling disdain that secretly stung him.
Only once did they exchange words. It was on the stairway, as Valentine gathered her riding-skirt in her fingers in order to mount to the Queen-Mother's room. The Duke was coming down slowly, a disappointed look on his face, but he brightened at sight of her, and taking her gloved hand quickly, he put it to his lips.
"Now I have lived to-day!" he said gently.
"If you do not get hence," she answered him with bitterness, "it is one of the last days that you will!"
"Then I would spend these last here in Blois," he said, smiling at her.