“I meant these jewellers.  But since you suggest it, perhaps it would be as well for Paul to go.”

“You hear your orders, Paul.”

“Aye, I hear and I disobey,” Lucas retorted.  “Mademoiselle, I take too much joy in your presence to be willing to leave it.”

“Monsieur,” she said to the duke, ignoring her cousin Paul with a coolness that must have maddened him, “will you not dismiss your tradespeople?  Then can we talk comfortably.”

“Aye,” answered Mayenne, “I will.  I am more gallant than Paul.  If you command it, out they go, though I have not half had time to look their wares over.  Here, master jeweller,” he addressed M. Etienne, slipping easily into Italian, “pack up your wares and depart.”

M. Etienne, bursting into rapid thanks to his Highness for his condescension in noticing the dirt of the way, set about his packing.  Mayenne turned to his lovely cousin.

“Now for my word to you, mademoiselle.  You wept so last night, it was impossible to discuss the subject properly.  But now I rejoice to see you more tranquil.  Here is the beginning and the middle and the end of the matter:  your marriage is my affair, and I shall do as I like about it.”

She searched his face; before his steady look her colour slowly died.  M. Etienne, whether by accident or design, knocked his tray of jewels off the table.  Murmuring profuse apologies, he dropped on his knees to grope for them.  Neither of the men heeded him, but kept their eyes steadily on the lady.

“Mademoiselle,” Mayenne deliberately went on, “I have been over-fond with you.  Had I followed my own interests instead of bowing to your whims, you had been a wife these two years.  I have indulged you, mademoiselle, because you were my ally Montluc’s daughter, because you came to me a lonely orphan, because you were my little cousin whose baby mouth I kissed.  I have let you cavil at this suitor and that, pout that one was too tall and one too short, and a third too bold and a fourth not bold enough.  I have been pleased to let you cajole me.  But now, mademoiselle, I am at the end of my patience.”

“Monsieur,” she cried, “I never meant to abuse your kindness.  You let me cajole you, as you say, else I could not have done it.  You treated my whims as a jest.  You let me air them.  But when you frowned, I have put them by.  I have always done your will.”

“Then do it now, mademoiselle.  Be faithful to me and to your birth.  Cease sighing for the enemy of our house.”

“Monsieur,” she said, “when you first brought him to me, he was not the enemy of our house.  When he came here, day after day, season after season, he was not our enemy.  When I wrote that letter, at Paul’s dictation, I did not know he was our enemy.  You told me that night that I was not for him.  I promised you obedience.  Did he come here to me and implore me to wed with him, I would send him away.”

Mayenne little imagined how truly she spoke; but he could not look in her eyes and doubt her honesty.