THE QUEEN.
I have the executioner.
SIMON RENARD.
Your Majesty swore upon your mother's prayer-book that you would not pardon him.
THE QUEEN.
Here is a signature in blank which he has sent to me, in which I swear on my imperial crown that I will pardon him! My father's crown is worth as much as my mother's prayer-book. One oath destroys the other. But who says that I will pardon him?
SIMON RENARD.
He has boldly betrayed you, madame!
THE QUEEN.
What does that matter? All men are alike about that. I don't want him to die. Listen, my lord—I mean Sir Bailiff. Good God! you confuse my mind so much that I can't even tell whom I am talking to. Oh, I know all that you want to say to me! I know he is a vile, degraded, contemptible man. I know it as well as you, and I blush for it. But I love him! What do you want me to do about it? I would probably love a better man less. Moreover, who are you—all of you—great as you may be? Are you any better than he? You will tell me that he is a favorite, and the English nation detests favorites! Don't I know that you only want to overthrow him to put the Earl of Kildare—that fool, that Irishman—in his place, that he may have twenty heads a day cut off? What does that matter to you? Don't talk to me about your Prince of Spain; you make light enough of him. Don't talk to me about the anger of M. de Noailles, the French embassador! M. de Noailles is an idiot, and I will tell him so to his face. As for me, I am a woman; I want things, and then I don't want them. I am not made all in one piece. That man's life is necessary to my life. Oh, I beg of you, don't put on that air of virginal sincerity and good faith. I know all your intrigues. Between us two, you know as well as I that he didn't commit the crime for which he is condemned. Well, it is settled. I don't want Fabiani to die. Am I the mistress, or am I not? Come, Sir Bailiff, let us talk about something else, will you?