“Impossible, madame,” rejoined Bourbon.
“Say not so, Charles. Since you have been made aware of my motives, you must view my conduct in a different light. Let the past be forgotten. Let all animosity be at an end between us. Henceforth, let us be friends—nay, more than friends. Do you not understand me, Charles?”
“I would fain not do so, madame,” rejoined Bourbon, averting his gaze from her.
“Let not resentment blind you to your own interests, Charles,” pursued the duchess. “You have felt my power to injure you. Henceforth, you shall find how well I can serve you. I can restore all you have lost—honours, commands, pensions. Nay, I can raise you higher than you have ever risen, and load you with wealth beyond your conception. All this I can do—and will do. Kneel down at my feet, Charles—not to supplicate my pardon, for that you have—but to renew those protestations of love which you once offered me. Kneel, I conjure you.”
But Bourbon remained inflexible.
“My knees would refuse their office were I inclined to comply,” he said.
“Then I must perforce take on myself the part which of right belongs to you, Charles. By the death of your spouse, Suzanne de Bourbon, you are free to wed again. I offer you my hand. You ought to solicit it on your bended knee—but no matter!—I offer it to you.”
“Is the king aware of your design, madame? Does he approve of the step?” demanded Bourbon.
“The king sent for you at my instance to arrange the marriage,” rejoined the duchess.
“His majesty's complaisance is carried to the extremest point,” said Bourbon. “But he seems to have taken my assent for granted—as you have done, madame.”