“In acting thus—in daring to act thus,” the King expounded, “they proceed as if they knew that I can have but a short time to live.” “Sire!” “What else? They plan events which cannot take place until I am dead.” Sully stared at his master for a long moment, in stupefied silence, his loyal Huguenot soul refusing to discount by flattery the truth that he perceived. “Sire,” he said at last, bowing his fine head, “you must take your measures.” “Ay, but against whom? Who are these that Vaucelas says he dare not name? Can you suggest another than...” He paused, shrinking in horror from completing the utterance of his thought. Then, with an abrupt gesture, he went on, “... than the Queen herself?” Sully quietly placed the letter on the table, and sat down. He took his chin in his hand and looked squarely across at Henry. “Sire, you have brought this upon yourself. You have exasperated her Majesty; you have driven her in despair to seek and act upon the councils of this scoundrel Concini. There never was an attachment of yours that did not beget trouble with the Queen, but never such trouble as I have been foreseeing from your attachment to the Princess of Conde. Sire, will you not consider where you stand?” “They are lies, I tell you,” Henry stormed. But Sully the uncompromising gravely shook his head. “At least,” Henry amended, “they are gross exaggerations. Oh, I confess to you, my friend, that I am sick with love of her. Day and night I see nothing but her gracious image. I sigh and fret and fume like any callow lad of twenty. I suffer the tortures of the damned. And yet... and yet, I swear to you, Sully, that I will curb this passion though it kill me. I will stifle these fires, though they consume my soul to ashes. No harm shall come to her from me. No harm has come yet. I swear it. These stories that are put about are the inventions of Concini to set my wife against me. Do you know how far he and his wife have dared to go? They have persuaded the Queen to eat nothing that is not prepared in the kitchen they have set up for her in their own apartments. What can you conclude from that but that they suggest that I desire to poison her?” “Why suffer it, sire?” quoth Sully gravely. “Send the pair packing back to Florence, and so be rid of them.” Henry rose in agitation. “I have a mind to. _Ventre St. Gris!_ I have a mind to. Yes, it is the only thing. You can manage it, Sully. Disabuse her mind of her Suspicions regarding the Princess of Conde; make my peace with her; convince her of my sincerity, of my firm intention to have done with gallantry, so that she on her side will make me the sacrifice of banishing the Concinis. You will do this, my friend?” It was no less than Sully had been expecting from past experience, and the task was one in which he was by now well-practiced; but the situation had never before been quite so difficult. He rose.