“Yes, sire.”

Chicot was on thorns; he would have given much, hungry as he was, to be in bed without supper.

“The storm is about to burst,” thought he.

“Sire,” said Marguerite, “I much regret that your majesty has forgotten your Latin.”

“Madame, of all the Latin I learned, I remember but one phrase—­’Deus et virtus oeterna’—­a singular assemblage of masculine, feminine, and neuter.”

“Because, sire, if you did understand, you would see in the letter many compliments to me.”

“But how could compliments embroil us, madame?  For as long as your brother pays you compliments, I shall agree with him; if he speaks ill of you, I shall understand his policy.”

“Ah! if he spoke ill of me, you would understand it?”

“Yes; he has reasons for embroiling us, which I know well.”

“Well, then, sire, these compliments are only an insinuating prelude to calumnious accusations against your friends and mine.”

“Come, ma mie, you have understood badly; let me hear if all this be in the letter.”

Marguerite looked defiant.

“Do you want your followers or not, sire?” said she.

“Do I want them? what a question!  What should I do without them, and reduced to my own resources?”

“Well, sire, the king wishes to detach your best servants from you.”

“I defy him.”

“Bravo, sire!” said Chicot.

“Yes,” said Henri, with that apparent candor, with which to the end of his life he deceived people, “for my followers are attached to me through love, and not through interest; I have nothing to give them.”

“You give them all your heart and your faith, sire; it is the best return a king can make his friends.”

“Yes, ma mie, I shall not fail to do so till I find that they do not merit it.”

“Well, sire, they wish to make you believe that they do not.”

“Ah! but how?”

“I cannot tell you, sire, without compromising—­” and she glanced at Chicot.

“Dear M. Chicot,” said Henri, “pray wait for me in my room, the queen has something particular to say to me.”

CHAPTER XLVII.

The explanation.

To get rid of a witness whom Marguerite believed to know more of Latin than he allowed was already a triumph, or at least a pledge of security for her; for alone with her husband she could give whatever translation of the Latin that she pleased.

Henri and his wife were then left tete-a-tete.  He had on his face no appearance of disquietude or menace; decidedly he could not understand Latin.

“Monsieur,” said Marguerite, “I wait for you to interrogate me.”

“This letter preoccupies you much, ma mie; do not alarm yourself thus.”

“Sire, because a king does not send a special messenger to another without some reason that he believes important.”