“Oh, I don’t care, so that you keep it a secret.  The old king will never know.  We can hurry up the marriage.  He is getting too much already; four hundred thousand crowns and a girl like you; he cannot complain if he have an heir.  It would be a good joke on the miserly old dotard, but better on ‘Ce Gros Garcon.’”

Mary sprang from her chair with a cry of rage.  “You brute!  Do you think I am as vile as you because I have the misfortune to be your sister, or that Charles Brandon is like you simply because he is a man?” Henry laughed, his health at that time being too good for him to be ill-natured.  He had all he wanted out of his sister, so her outbursts amused him.

Mary hurriedly left the king and walked back to her room, filled with shame and rage; feelings actively stimulated by Jane, who was equally indignant.

Henry had noticed Jane’s frown, but had laughed at her, and had tried to catch and kiss her as she left; but she struggled away from him and fled with a speed worthy of the cause.

This insulting suggestion put a stop to Mary’s visit to the Tower more effectually than any refusal could have done, and she sat down to pour forth her soul’s indignation in a letter.

She remained at home then, but saw Brandon later, and to good purpose, as I believe, although I am not sure about it, even to this day.

I took this letter to Brandon, along with Mary’s miniature—­the one that had been painted for Charles of Germany, but had never been given—­and a curl of her hair, and it looked as if this was all he would ever possess of her.

De Longueville heard of Henry’s brutal consent that Mary might see Brandon, and, with a Frenchman’s belief in woman’s depravity, was exceedingly anxious to keep them apart.  To this end he requested that a member of his own retinue be placed near Brandon.  To this Henry readily consented, and there was an end to even the letter-writing.  Opportunities increase in value doubly fast as they drift behind us, and now that the princess could not see Brandon, or even write to him, she regretted with her whole soul that she had not gone to the Tower when she had permission, regardless of what any one would say or think.

Mary was imperious and impatient, by nature, but upon rare and urgent occasions could employ the very smoothest sort of finesse.

Her promise to marry Louis of France had been given under the stress of a frantic fear for Brandon, and without the slightest mental reservation, for it was given to save his life, as she would have given her hands or her eyes, her life or her very soul itself; but now that the imminent danger was passed she began to revolve schemes to evade her promise and save Brandon notwithstanding.  She knew that under the present arrangement his life depended upon her marriage, but she had never lost faith in her ability to handle the king if she had but a little time in which to operate, and had secretly regretted that she had not, in place of flight, opened up her campaign along the line of feminine diplomacy at the very beginning.