Below all these great names Cellini wrote his own in a firm, distinct hand. And yet he was not the one who had made the least painful sacrifice. After writing his name, the Spanish ambassador drew nigh the duchess. "Our plans still hold, madame?" he asked. "Mon Dieu!" she replied, "do what you choose: what matters France or the world to me?" The duke bowed. As he resumed his place, his nephew, a young and inexperienced diplomat, remarked:-- "So it is the Emperor's purpose that not the King of France, but his son, shall be Duke of Milan?" "Neither the one nor the other will be," replied the ambassador. Meanwhile other signatures were being affixed. When every one had written his name as a subscriber to the happiness of Colombe and Ascanio, Benvenuto walked up to the king, and knelt upon one knee before him. "Sire," said he, "having issued commands as king I now prefer a request as your Majesty's humble and grateful servant. Will your Majesty deign to grant me one last favor?" "Say on, Benvenuto, say on!" returned François, who was in a granting mood, and who discovered anew that it was the prerogative of royalty wherein, take it for all in all, a king finds the most pleasure; "what do you desire?" "To return to Italy, sire," said Benvenuto. "What does this mean?" cried the king; "you wish to leave me when you have so many masterpieces still in hand for me? I'll not have it." "Sire," replied Benvenuto, "I will return, I give you my word. But let me go, let me see my country once more, for I feel the need of it just now. I do not talk of my suffering," he continued, lowering his voice and shaking his head sadly, "but I have many causes of sorrow which I could not describe, and nothing but the air of my native land can heal my wounded heart. You are a great and generous king, to whom I am deeply attached. I will return, Sire, but let me go now and be cured in the bright sunlight of the South. I leave with you Ascanio, my brain, and Pagolo, my hand; they will suffice to carry out your artistic dreams until my return; and when I have received the soft kisses of the breezes of Florence, my mother, I will return to you, my king, and death alone shall part us." "Go if you will," said François, sadly; "it is fitting that art should be free as the swallows: go!" He gave Benvenuto his hand, which the artist kissed with all the fervor of heartfelt gratitude. As they withdrew, Benvenuto found himself by the duchess's side. "Are you very angry with me, madame?" said he, slipping into her hand the fatal letter which, like a magic talisman, had accomplished impossibilities. "No," said the duchess, overjoyed to have it in her possession at last; "and yet you defeated me by means--" "Go to!" said Benvenuto; "I threatened you with them, but do you think I would have used them?" "God in heaven!" cried the duchess, as if the light had suddenly come to her; "that is what it is to have thought that you were like myself!"