“Not so strange as you think, mignonne,” replied the king. “The duchess bound me to secresy.”
“What can be the meaning of this?” thought Bonnivet. “The duchess hates Bourbon too deeply to make terms with him.”
“I see it!” mentally ejaculated the countess, instinctively arriving at the truth. “Her love for Bourbon has been suddenly revived. But will he accept her terms? If I know him, he will not.”
“Here comes the Constable,” remarked François, as the tall and majestic figure of Bourbon was seen moving slowly down the gallery. He was preceded by the chamberlain, and followed by Saint-Vallier and René de Bretagne.
“He has not lost his insolent deportment,” remarked the Admiral. “I ought to have informed your majesty that he has brought with him an escort of three hundred gentlemen.”
The observations told, and a frown of displeasure passed over the king's brow. But it fled before Bourbon came up, and gave way to a gracious smile.
“Welcome, cousin,” he cried, in a voice that bespoke cordiality. “I am right glad to see you again at Fontainebleau.”
At the same time he advanced towards the Constable, and embraced him affectionately.
“Sire, your kindness overwhelms me,” said Bourbon, moved by the warmth of the reception.
“You have been absent from court far too long, cousin—far too long,” pursued the king. “Our sister the Duchess d'Alençon, and the Comtesse de Chateaubriand, will tell you how much we have missed you.”