"I?"
"Yes, M. le Duc."
"No, certainly not. How should I?" I replied.
"And she is not here?" the man persisted.
"No!" I answered, angrily. "God bless the Queen, I know nothing of her. I am sitting at meat, and—"
The man interrupted me with protestations of regret, and, hastening to express himself thoroughly satisfied, retired with a crestfallen air. I wondered what the message meant, and what had come over the Queen, and whither the girl had gone. But as I made it a rule throughout my term of office to avoid, as far as possible, all participation in bed-chamber intrigues, I wasted little time on the matter, but returning to my dinner, took up the conversation where I had left it. Before I rose, however, La Trape came to me and again interrupted me. He announced that a messenger from his Majesty was waiting in the hall.
I went out, thinking it very probable that Henry had sent me a present; though it was his more usual custom on this day to honour me with a visit, and declare his generous intentions by word of mouth, when we had both retired to my library and the door was closed. Still, on one or two occasions he had sent me a horse from his stables, a brace of Indian fowl, a melon or the like, as a foretaste; and this I supposed to be the errand on which the man had come.
His first words disabused me. "May it please your excellency," he said, very civilly, "the King desires to be remembered to you as usual, and would learn whether you know anything of Mademoiselle D'Oyley."
"Of whom?" I cried, astonished.
"Of Mademoiselle D'Oyley, her Majesty's maid of honour."