“It is, sire,” answered David, with a sigh; “and to the bees at the flowers, and, maybe, to the grape gatherers singing on the hill.”

“Yes, yes,” said the king, impatiently; “maybe to them; but surely to the blackbirds.  They whistled often, in the grove, did they not?”

“Nowhere, sire, so sweetly as in Eure-et-Loir.  I have endeavored to express their song in some verses that I have written.”

“Can you repeat those verses?” asked the king, eagerly.  “A long time ago I listened to the blackbirds.  It would be something better than a kingdom if one could rightly construe their song.  And at night you drove the sheep to the fold and then sat, in peace and tranquillity, to your pleasant bread.  Can you repeat those verses, shepherd?”

“They run this way, sire,” said David, with respectful ardour: 

   “’Lazy shepherd, see your lambkins
        Skip, ecstatic, on the mead;
     See the firs dance in the breezes,
        Hear Pan blowing at his reed.

    “Hear us calling from the tree-tops,
        See us swoop upon your flock;
     Yield us wool to make our nests warm
        In the branches of the—­’”

“If it please your majesty,” interrupted a harsh voice, “I will ask a question or two of this rhymester.  There is little time to spare.  I crave pardon, sire, if my anxiety for your safety offends.”

“The loyalty,” said the king, “of the Duke d’Aumale is too well proven to give offence.”  He sank into his chair, and the film came again over his eyes.

“First,” said the duke, “I will read you the letter he brought: 

“’To-night is the anniversary of the dauphin’s death.  If he goes, as is his custom, to midnight mass to pray for the soul of his son, the falcon will strike, at the corner of the Rue Esplanade.  If this be his intention, set a red light in the upper room at the southwest corner of the palace, that the falcon may take heed.’

“Peasant,” said the duke, sternly, “you have heard these words.  Who gave you this message to bring?”

“My lord duke,” said David, sincerely, “I will tell you.  A lady gave it me.  She said her mother was ill, and that this writing would fetch her uncle to her bedside.  I do not know the meaning of the letter, but I will swear that she is beautiful and good.”

“Describe the woman,” commanded the duke, “and how you came to be her dupe.”

“Describe her!” said David with a tender smile.  “You would command words to perform miracles.  Well, she is made of sunshine and deep shade.  She is slender, like the alders, and moves with their grace.  Her eyes change while you gaze into them; now round, and then half shut as the sun peeps between two clouds.  When she comes, heaven is all about her; when she leaves, there is chaos and a scent of hawthorn blossoms.  She came to see me in the Rue Conti, number twenty-nine.”

“It is the house,” said the duke, turning to the king, “that we have been watching.  Thanks to the poet’s tongue, we have a picture of the infamous Countess Quebedaux.”