“You had the plague at Abbiate-Grasso, and have not forgotten the attack,” remarked the king.
“Ay, and the plague is now raging at Milan,” said Montmorency. “Beware of it, sire. 'Tis a more deadly enemy than Bourbon.”
“Oh, do not venture into that infected city, sire,” implored Diane. “I have a presentiment that this expedition will be disastrous.”
“Bah! I go to win another Marignan,” rejoined François.
“We have more than a month of fine weather before us now,” remarked Bonnivet to Diane. “Long before winter has set in his majesty will be master of Milan.”
“But the plague!—the plague!” cried Diane. “How is he to avoid that? Be advised by me, sire, and stay in France, where you incur no risk.”
“I laugh at all danger,” rejoined the king. “My sole regret is that I must perforce leave you behind. To those who cannot brave the rigours of winter, or who are afraid of the pestilence,” he added, glancing at Montmorency and Saint-Paul, “the roads of France will be open.”
“Nay, sire, as long as you remain in Italy I shall stay—even if I find a tomb there,” said Montmorency.
“It is well,” rejoined François. “To-morrow we start on the expedition.”
Seeing that her royal lover was inflexible, Diane made no further effort to turn him from his purpose. Her only hope was that the Duchess d'Angoulême might arrive before his departure. But in this she was disappointed. François had taken his measures too well. A messenger met the duchess on the way, and telling her the king was on the eve of departure, she turned back.