“And you are still Mlle. de Montluc?”

She turned to Monsieur with the prettiest smile in the world.

“M. de St. Quentin, though he has not fought for you, Sire, has ever been whole-heartedly loyal.”

“Ventre-saint-gris!” the king exclaimed.  “He is either an incredible loyalist or an incredible ass!”

Even the grave Rosny smiled, and the victim laughed as he defended himself.

“That my loyalty may be credible, Sire, I make haste to say that I had never seen mademoiselle till this hour.”

“I know not whether to think better of you for that, or worse,” the king retorted.  “Had I been in your place, beshrew me but I should have seen her.”

Monsieur smiled and was silent, with anxious eyes on mademoiselle.

“M. de St. Quentin withdrew to Picardie, Sire, but M. de Mar stayed in Paris.  And my cousin Mayenne never gave up entirely the notion of the marriage.  He is very tenacious of his plans.”

“Aye,” said the king, with a grimace.  “Well I know.”

“He blew hot and cold with M. de Mar.  He favoured the marriage on Sunday and scouted it on Wednesday and discussed it again on Friday.”

“And what were M. de Mar’s opinions?”

She met his probing gaze blushing but candid.

“M. de Mar, Sire, favoured it every day in the week.”

“I’ll swear he did!” the king cried.

“When M. le Duc came back to Paris,” mademoiselle went on, “and it was known he had espoused your cause, Sire, Mayenne was so loath to lose the whole house of St. Quentin to you that he offered to marry me out of hand to M. de Mar.  And he refused.”

“Ventre-saint-gris!” Henry cried.  “We will marry you to a king’s son.  On my honour, mademoiselle—­”

“Sire,” she pleaded, “you promised to hear me.”

“That I will, then.  But I warn you I am out of patience with these St. Quentins.”

“Then you are out of patience with devotion to your cause, Sire.”

“What! you speak for the recreants?”

“I assure you, Sire, you have no more loyal servant than M. de Mar.”

“Strange I cannot recollect the face of my so loyal servant,” the king said dryly.

But she, with a fine scorn of argument, made the audacious answer: 

“When you see it, you will like it, Sire.”

“Not half so well as I like yours, mademoiselle, I promise you!  But he comes to me well commended, since you vouch for him.  Or rather, he does not come.  What is this ardent follower doing so long away from me?  Where the devil does this eager partizan keep himself?  St. Quentin, where is your son?”

“He had been with you long ago, Sire, but for the bright eyes of a lady of the League.  And now she comes to tell me—­my page tells me—­he is in the Bastille.”

“Ventre-saint-gris!  And how has that calamity befallen?”

She hesitated a moment, embarrassed by her very wealth of matter, confused between her longing to set the whole case before the king, and her fear of wearying his patience.  But his glance told her she need have no misgiving.  Had she come to present him Paris, he could not have been more interested.