“Doubt it not, ma mie,” replied the king. “The duchy shall soon again be mine. During the winter I will hold my court at Milan, and you shall come thither, if you list.” “I would I might accompany you during the campaign, sire! Let me go with you, I entreat you!” “No, that cannot be. You could not cross the Alps with the army. But you shall follow speedily. Nay, content you, mignonne. You shall go with me as far as Lyons.” At this moment, Bonnivet, who had come quickly down the gallery, approached them. “You have some news for us?” said the king, looking inquiringly at him. “Any tidings from Bayonne, or from the Milanese?” “None, sire,” replied the Admiral. “I merely come to announce to you a most unexpected visitor. Not to keep you a moment in suspense, I will add that the Prince Mal-endurant has just arrived at the palace.” “The Constable de Bourbon arrived here!” exclaimed the countess. “His arrival is not unexpected,” replied the king, smiling. “In fact, I sent for him.” “You sent for him, sire!” exclaimed Bonnivet, surprised, and exchanging a glance with the countess. “I did not suppose you would adopt such a course. If I had been aware of it, I would have counselled you against it.” “And so would I,” added the countess. “For that very reason, I did not mention my design,” remarked François. “What will you say, ma mie, if I should be reconciled to the Constable?” he added to the countess. “I shall say that your majesty is not true to yourself,” she replied, unable to conceal her vexation. “Reconciliation with Bourbon is impossible, unless the Duchess d'Angoulême will forego her claim--and she will never do that!” cried Bonnivet. “Hum!” exclaimed François. “One cannot tell what may happen. I always pay the greatest deference to my mother's wishes, and, as she has expressed a desire to see the Constable, I have sent for him.” “It is strange I should hear nothing of this before, sire,” remarked Françoise de Foix, in a tone of pique. “Not so strange as you think, mignonne,” replied the king. “The duchess bound me to secresy.” “What can be the meaning of this?” thought Bonnivet. “The duchess hates Bourbon too deeply to make terms with him.” “I see it!” mentally ejaculated the countess, instinctively arriving at the truth. “Her love for Bourbon has been suddenly revived. But will he accept her terms? If I know him, he will not.” “Here comes the Constable,” remarked François, as the tall and majestic figure of Bourbon was seen moving slowly down the gallery. He was preceded by the chamberlain, and followed by Saint-Vallier and René de Bretagne. “He has not lost his insolent deportment,” remarked the Admiral. “I ought to have informed your majesty that he has brought with him an escort of three hundred gentlemen.” The observations told, and a frown of displeasure passed over the king's brow. But it fled before Bourbon came up, and gave way to a gracious smile.