Blois, like that of Aquitaine, like that even of Anjou, which, from nothing, had risen to be so high.  More:  by marriage, by robbery on that great plan where it ceases to be robbery and is called warfare, by treaty and nice use of the balances, there was no reason why kingship should not have been theirs, or in their blood.  Kingship, even now, was not far off.  They called the Marquess of Montferrat cousin, and he (it was understood) intended to be throned at Jerusalem.  The Emperor himself might call, and once (being in liquor) did call Count Eudo of Saint-Pol ‘cousin’; for the fact was so.  You must understand that in the Gaul of that day things were in this ticklish state, that a man (as they say) was worth the scope of his sword:  reiver yesterday, warrior to-morrow; yesterday wearing a hemp collar, to-day a count’s belt, and to-morrow, may be, a king’s crown.  You climbed in various ways, by the field, by the board, by the bed.  A handsome daughter was nearly worth a stout son.  Count Eudo reckoned himself stout enough, and reckoned Eustace was so; but the beauty of Jehane, that stately maid who might uphold a cornice, that still wonder of ivory and gold, was an emblement which he, the tenant, meant to profit by; and so for an hour (two years by the clock) he saw his profit fair.  The infatuation of the girl for this man or that man was nothing; but the infatuation of the great Count of Poictou for her set Eudo’s heart ablaze.  God willing, Saint Maclou assisting, he might live to call Jehane ‘My Lady Queen.’  He shut his ears to report; there were those who called Richard a rake, and others who called him ‘Yea-and-Nay’; that was Bertran de Born’s name for him, and all Paris knew it.  He shut his eyes to Richard’s galling unconcern with himself and his dignity.  Dignity of Saint-Pol!  He would wait for his dignity.  He shut his mind to Jehane’s blown fame, to the threatenings of his dreadful Norman neighbour, Henry the old king, who had had an archbishop pole-axed like a steer; he dared the anger of his suzerain, in whose hands lay Jehane’s marriage; a heady gambler, he staked the fortunes of his house upon this clinging of a girl to a wild prince.  And now to tell himself that he deserved what he had got was but to feed his rage.  Again he swore by God’s teeth that he would have his way; and when he left his castle of Saint-Pol-la-Marche it was for Paris.

The head of his house, under the Emperor Henry, was there, Conrad of Montferrat, trying to negotiate the crown of Jerusalem.  There must be a conference before the house of Saint-Pol could be let to fall.  Surely the Marquess would never allow it!  He must spike the wheel.  Was not Alois of France within the degrees?  She was sister to the French King:  well, but what was Richard’s mother?  She had been wife to Louis, wife to Alois’ father.  Was this decency?  What would the Pope say—­an Italian?  Was the Marquess Conrad an Italian for nothing?  Was ‘our cousin’ the Emperor of no account, King of the Romans?  The Pope Italian, the Marquess Italian, the Emperor on his throne, and God in His heaven—­eh, eh! there should be a conference of these high powers.  So, and with such whirl of question and answer, did the Count of Saint-Pol beat out to Paris.