“By our Lady!” exclaims Francis, “such treason is a blot upon knighthood. Bourbon, a man whom we had made as great as ourselves!” “The Duke, Sire, left a message for your Majesty.” “A message! Where? and who bore it?” “De Pompérant, Sire, who has already been arrested at Moulins. The Duke begged your Majesty to take back the sword which you had given him, and prayed you to send for the badge which he left hanging at the head of his bed at Chantelle.” “_Diable!_ does the villain dare to point his jests at his sovereign?” and Francis flushes to the roots of his hair with passion. “I wish I had him face to face in a fair field”--and he lays his hand on the hilt of his sword;--“but no,” he adds in a calmer voice, “a traitor’s blood would but soil my weapon. Let him carry his perfidy into Spain--’twill suit the Emperor; I am well rid of him. Are there many accomplices, Bonnivet?” “About two hundred, Sire.” “Is it possible! Do we know them?” “The Comte de Saint-Vallier, Sire, is the principal accomplice.” “What! Saint-Vallier, the Captain of our Archers! That strikes us nearly. This conspiracy, my lords,” says Francis, advancing to where Guise, La Trémouille, Montmorenci, and the others stand somewhat apart during his conversation with Bonnivet, “is much more serious than I imagined. I must remain in France to wait the issue of events. You, Bonnivet, must take command of the Italian campaign.” Bonnivet kneels and kisses the hand of Francis. “I am sorry for Jean de Poitiers,” continues Francis, turning to Guise. “Are the proofs against him certain?” “Sire, Saint-Vallier accompanied the Constable to the frontier.” “I am sorry,” repeats the King, and he passes his hand thoughtfully over his brow and muses. “Jean de Poitiers, my _ci-devant_ Captain of the Guards, is the father of a charming lady; Madame Diane, the Seneschale of Normandy, is an angel, though her husband, De Brèzè--hum--why, he is a monster. Vulcan and Venus--the old story, eh, my lords?” There is a general laugh. A page enters and announces a lady humbly [Illustration: HENRY, DUKE OF MONTMORENCI, MARSHAL OF FRANCE. FROM A PORTRAIT BY BALTAZAR MONCORNET.] craving to speak with his Majesty. The King smiles, his wicked eyes glisten. “Who? what? Do I know her?” “Sire, the lady is deeply veiled; she desires to speak with your Majesty alone.” “But, by St. Denis--do I know her?” “I think, Sire, it is the wife of the Grand Seneschal of Normandy--Madame Diane de Brèzè.” There is a pause, some whispering, and a low laugh is heard. The King looks around displeased. “I am not surprised,” says he. “When I heard of the father’s danger I expected the daughter’s intercession. Let the lady enter.” With a wave of his hand he dismisses the Court, and seats himself on a chair of state under a rich canopy embroidered in gold with the arms of France.