The Duke stares at her without replying. The Queen, who appears to desire to continue the conversation, yet to avoid all discussion, still speaks— "My son will grow up to be a keen sportsman, I hope. The royal forests must be better guarded. Did you and the Duc de Nemours find any deer at Rambouillet?" Spite of the Queen's unusual loquacity, there is something in her manner which irritates the excitable Duke. He cannot altogether convince himself that she is not mocking him. He had come certainly repentant, but his fiery temper now overmasters him at the bare suspicion. "Did your Majesty send for me to put such questions as these?" cries he roughly. "If so, I would rather have stayed at Rambouillet." "Truly, Duke," replies the Queen evasively, colouring at his bluntness, "it is difficult to content you. I have already said that I summoned you for no special purpose, save that we might converse together"—and she stops suddenly, and hesitates—"as cousins, and _as friends_." This last word is spoken slowly and with manifest effort. Her voice, which has a strange ring in it, is drowned by a clap of thunder, still distant, and a flash of lightning illuminates the room for an instant, and rests upon the long, fair hair and frowning countenance of Beaufort. Her words are bland, but her bearing is distant and constrained. Even the unobservant Beaufort is struck by this anomaly; but he attributes it to some vestige of displeasure at his late conduct. "I trust, Madame, you will always treat me with the confidence proper to both these titles," he replies stiffly. Her words appease, but do not satisfy him. Even while speaking, the Queen has turned her head towards the door of her writing closet, and listens. The wind roars without, and the waters of the Seine dash themselves against the low walls that border the Quay, but no sound within is audible. Anne of Austria resumes the conversation as though talking against time. But Beaufort, naturally unobservant, is now too much excited to notice this. He has forgotten all that his mother and sister had said. Not the slightest suspicion crosses his mind. "It is a boisterous evening," continues the Queen, looking out of the window—a faint flash of lightning plays round her darkly robed figure—"but the storm is still distant. By-the-bye, my cousin, am I to congratulate you on being appointed beadle of Saint-Nicholas des Champs?" asks the Queen, still smiling. "The bourgeoisie must be greatly flattered by your condescension." "That is a matter of opinion," answers Beaufort. "I glory in belonging to the people. I would rather be called _Roi des Halles_ than King of France."