"I, Sire? I?"
"You, Mar, you. You are my staunch supporter, perhaps?"
"Your horse-boy, an you ask it, Sire!"
He pressed his lips to the king's hand, great, helpless tears dripping
down upon it.
"If I ever desert you, I am a dog, Sire! But the fighting is not all
done. I will capture you a flag yet."
"Perhaps. I much fear me there's life in Mayenne still."
M. Étienne, not venturing to rise, yet lifted beseeching eyes to the
king's.
"What! you want to get away from me, ventre-saint-gris!"
My lord, who wanted precisely that, had no choice but to protest that
nothing was farther from his thoughts.
"Stuff!" the king exclaimed. "You're in a sweat to be gone, you
unmannerly churl! You, a raw, untried boy, are invited to dine with the
king, and your one itch is to escape the tedium!"
"Sire--"
"Peace! You are guilty, sirrah. Take your punishment!"
He darted across the room, and throwing open an inner door, called
gently, "Mademoiselle!"
"Yes, Sire," she answered, coming to the threshold.
The peasant lass was gone forever. The great lady, regal in satins,
stood before us. She bent on the king a little, eager, questioning
glance; then she caught sight of her lover. Faith, had the sun gone out,
the room would have been brilliant with the light of her face.
M. Étienne sprang up and toward her. And she, pushing by the king as if
he had been the door-post, went to him. They stood before each other,
neither touching nor speaking, but only looking one at the other like
two blind folk by a heavenly miracle restored to sight.
"How now, children? Am I not a model monarch? Do you swear by me
forever? Do you vouch me the very pattern of a king?"
Answer he got none. They heard nothing, knew nothing, but each other.
The slighted king chuckled and, beckoning me, withdrew to his cabinet.
So here an end. For if Henry of France leave them, you and I may not
stay.