“Oh, monsieur, you have taken your time before making this consoling reflection to me. You are a faithful servant, on my word; you saw me sad and afflicted, you heard me speak of the wretched dreams I had since the death of this woman, and you let me live thus, when even a doubt might have spared me so much suffering. How must I consider this conduct, monsieur?” “Monseigneur, is your highness accusing me?” “Traitor!” cried the duke, “you have deceived me; you have taken from me this woman whom I loved----” Monsoreau turned pale, but did not lose his proud, calm look. “It is true,” said he. “True, knave!” “Please to speak lower, monseigneur; your highness forgets, that you speak to a gentleman and an old servant.” The duke laughed. “My excuse is,” continued he, “that I loved Mademoiselle de Méridor ardently.” “I, also,” replied François, with dignity. “It is true, monseigneur; but she did not love you.” “And she loved you?” “Perhaps.” “You lie! you know you lie! You used force as I did; only I, the master, failed, while you, the servant, succeeded by treason.” “Monseigneur, I loved her.” “What do I care?” “Monseigneur, take care. I loved her, and I am not a servant. My wife is mine, and no one can take her from me, not even the king. I wished to have her, and I took her.” “You took her! Well! you shall give her up.” “You are wrong, monseigneur. And do not call,” continue he, stopping him, “for if you call once--if you do me a public injury----” “You shall give up this woman.” “Give her up! she is my wife before God----” “If she is your wife before God, you shall give her up before men. I know all, and I will break this marriage, I tell you. To-morrow, Mademoiselle de Méridor shall be restored to her father; you shall set off into the exile I impose on you; you shall have sold your place; these are my conditions, and take care, or I will break you as I break this glass.” And he threw down violently a crystal cup. “I will not give up my wife, I will not give up my place, and I will remain in France,” replied Monsoreau. “You will not?” “No, I will ask my pardon of the King of France--of the king anointed at the Abbey of St. Geneviève; and this new sovereign will not, I am sure, refuse the first request proffered to him.” François grew deadly pale, and nearly fell. “Well, well,” stammered he, “this request, speak lower--I listen.” “I will speak humbly, as becomes the servant of your highness. A fatal love was the cause of all. Love is the most imperious of the passions. To make me forget that your highness had cast your eyes on Diana, I must have been no longer master of myself.” “It was a treason.”