Leicester, who knew her better than any one, was quick to see whither she was drifting, and became violently jealous. When the time came for signing the passport for Alençon, at the end of June, he made a fervent appeal to the Queen not to sign it; but Simier was too strong for him, and the passport was sent, whereupon Leicester went and sulked at Wanstead, feigning illness, and refused to be comforted, although the Queen herself went there secretly and stayed two days to console him. Shortly afterwards a desperate attempt was made by one of the Queen’s guard to assassinate Simier, and it was at once concluded, doubtless correctly, that it had been done at the instance of Leicester and Hatton. The Queen was in a red-hot rage, and so was Simier himself, who determined to strike a blow at his rival, which no other had yet dared to do. Leicester had been secretly married some time before to the widowed Countess of Essex, the daughter of Elizabeth’s cousin, and Vice-Chamberlain Sir Francis Knollys: it was a _secret de polichinelle_ to every one but the Queen, but no one had ventured to tell her until Simier, choosing the propitious moment, did so. Her fury passed all bounds of decency and decorum; she raged and swore against the “she-wolf,” as she called her cousin, who had thus been instrumental in wounding her vanity; but Simier was victorious, for she became more inseparable from him than ever, and for a time kept Leicester under lock and key in a fort in Greenwich Park. Soon afterwards another attempt was made upon Simier’s life, this time by a shot whilst he was on the river with the Queen. He had previously lived with Castelnau at the French embassy, but now, in order to avoid the risk of his going backwards and forwards daily by water, the Queen brought him to her palace at Greenwich, and there lodged him, to the dismay and disgust of the English courtiers. The way seemed now clear. The King of France and his mother had been convinced by Simier and Castelnau that Alençon had only to appear before the Queen for her to marry him, and they were willing to run the risk of his going secretly on the chance, in order, if possible, to get rid of so troublesome an element as Alençon was in France. In England the match was looked upon as settled; but still gloomy, patient Philip, in his cell, was incredulous. “Whatever may be said,” he wrote to Mendoza, early in August, “I do not believe the marriage will take place, as there can be on either side no great desire for it, but a large amount of pretence.” The only thing he left out of the calculation was Elizabeth’s passion and vanity, which for a time were overmastering her judgment.