The king is in the room, standing by a window, but he is not looking at his duchess. He is tapping his fingers rhythmically against the glass, and seems to be deep in meditation. He is thinking, no doubt, of the momentous question of Charles V.'s journey through France. "Pray what are you doing there, Sire, with your back turned?" the duchess finally asks, petulantly. "Making verses for you, my love, and they are finished at last, I believe." "Oh, repeat them to me quickly, I pray you, my gallant crowned poet!" "That I will," the king replies, with the confidence of a laurel-crowned rhymer. "Listen:-- 'Étant seul et auprès d'une fenêtre, Par un matin comme le jour peignait, Je regardais Aurore à main senestre, Qui à Phœbus le chemin enseignait, Et d'autre part ma mie qui peignait Son chef doré, et vis ses luisans yeux, Dont un jeta un trait si gracieux, Qu'à haute voix je fus contraint de dire; Dieux immortels! rentrez dedans vos cieux, Car la beauté de ceste vous empire!'"[5] "Oh, the lovely verses!" says the duchess, clapping her hands. "Look at Aurora to your heart's content: henceforth I'll not be jealous of her, since to her I owe such charming verses. Say them to me once again, I beg." François obligingly repeated his flattering lines, for his own benefit as well as hers, but this time Anne said nothing. "What is the matter, my fair siren?" said François, who expected a second compliment. "The matter is, Sire, that I am considering whether I will say to you again even more emphatically what I said last evening: a poet has even less pretext than a knightly king for allowing his mistress to be insulted, for she is at the same time his mistress and his Muse." "Again, naughty one!" rejoined the king with an impatient gesture: "an insult indeed, bon Dieu! Your wrath is implacable, in good sooth, my nymph of nymphs, when it leads you to neglect my verses." "Monseigneur, I hate as warmly as I love." "And yet suppose I were to beg you to lay aside your animosity to Benvenuto,--a great fool, who knows not what he says, who talks just as he fights, heedless of consequences, and who had not, I swear, the slightest purpose to wound you. You know, moreover, that clemency's the attribute of goddesses, dear goddess mine, so pray forgive the simpleton for love of me!" "Simpleton, indeed!" muttered Anne. "Oh, a sublime simpleton, I grant you!" said François: "I saw him yesterday, and he promised to do marvellous things. He is a man, I verily believe, who has no rival in his art, and will hereafter shed as much lustre on my reign as Andrea del Sarto, Titian, and Leonardo da Vinci. You know how I love my artists, dearest duchess, so be complaisant and indulgent to him, I beg you. Mon Dieu! an April shower, a woman's caprice, and an artist's whim have more of fascination than of ennui for me. Come, come, do you, whom I do love so dearly, pardon at my bidding." "I am your servant, Sire, and I will obey you."