"Madame, I am willing to believe that you took no part in the calumny which has been circulated to my prejudice. I make this acknowledgment in deference to the commands of the Queen." Thus ends the quarrel; but not the consequences. The whole Court and city is in an uproar. The citizens are deeply interested, and to a man take part with the _chère amie_ of Beaufort against the Duchesse de Longueville, and against Condé and Mazarin. [Illustration: THE GRAND CONDÉ.] Condé is not sure if he will not after all lead the Spaniards against France. The Duchesse de Montbazon feeds the flame for her private ends. She lays all the blame of her humiliation on Cardinal Mazarin, which exasperates Beaufort to madness. She incites Henri, Duc de Guise, another of her adorers—the wildest, bravest, and most dissolute of princes—to challenge the Comte de Coligni, whom she had designated as the writer of one of the love-letters. A duel is fought in the Place Royale. The Duchesse de Montbazon watches the while out of a window of the palace of the Duc de Rohan, her cousin. Coligni is killed. He falls, it is said, into the arms of the Duchesse de Longueville, who is present on the Place, disguised as a page. The Duc de Beaufort, whose turbulent folly foreshadows the _grand seigneur_ of later reigns and almost excuses the great Revolution, refuses to receive a royal herald, sent to him by the Queen, turns his back upon her Majesty at her lever, and threatens the life of the Cardinal. The Duchesse de Montbazon is banished. [Illustration: Cardinal Mazarin as an Art Collector. From the painting by H. J. Vetter. (With permission of Neurdein Frères, Paris.)] CHAPTER IX. THE DUC DE BEAUFORT. The Duc de Beaufort is summoned to a private audience at the Louvre. On his way up the grand staircase entering from the inner quadrangle he meets his mother, the Duchesse de Vendôme, and his sister, the Duchesse de Nemours, who, their attendance on the Queen over, are descending. "Good God! Francis," cries his mother, raising her hands with a gesture of horror, "I thought you were safe at Rambouillet. _You_ within the Louvre at this moment? You must be mad!" And she throws herself upon him and tries to bar his further passage. "Oh, my brother!" exclaims his sister Nemours, in the same breath, throwing her arms around his neck; "in the name of the Holy Virgin, do not tempt your fate. Fly, dear Francis—fly, while you can—our coach is waiting below—come with us instantly." And Madame de Nemours takes him by the arm, and tries to draw him downwards. Beaufort plants himself firmly on the stair. His first impulse is to push them both forcibly aside, and to proceed; his next to curse their folly in the spicy _argot_ of the _halles_. He does neither; but stands open-mouthed, his fierce eyes demanding an explanation he does not condescend to ask. The explanation is soon forthcoming.