ull voice, her eyes intent
upon him, with something magnetic in their sleepy glance that seemed
to rob him of half his will. "None knows more accurately than I the
Admiral's precise, value to France."

Anjou behind her may have smiled at that equivocal phrase.

"God's Bowels! Am I King, or what am I?"

"It ill becomes a king to abuse the strength of a poor wounded subject,"
she returned, her eyes ever regarding him steadily. "Come, Charles.
Another day, when the Admiral shall have recovered more fully, you may
continue this discourse. Come now."

His anger was subdued to mere sullenness, almost infantile in its
outward petulant expression. He attempted to meet her glance, and he was
completely lost.

"Perhaps... Ah, Ventre Dieu, my mother is right! Let the matter rest,
then, my father. We will talk of it again as soon as you are well."

He stepped up to the couch, and held out his hand.

Coligny took it, and his eyes looked up wistfully into the weak young
face of his King.

"I thank you, Sire, for coming and for hearing me. Another day, if I am
spared, I may tell you more. Meanwhile, bear well in mind what I have
said already. I have no interests in this world but your own, Sire." And
he kissed the royal hand in farewell.

Not until they were back in the Louvre did the Queen attempt to break
upon the King's gloomy abstraction, to learn--as learn she must--the
subject of the Admiral's confidential communication.

Accompanied by Anjou, she sought him in his cabinet, nor would she
be denied. He sat at his writing-table, his head sunken between his
shoulders, his receding chin in his cupped palms. He glared at the pair
as they entered, swore savagely, and demanded their business with him.

Catherine sat down with massive calm. Anjou remained standing beside and
slightly behind her, leaning upon the back of her tall chair.

"My son," she said bluntly, "I have come to learn what passed between
you and Coligny."

"What passed? What concern is that of yours?"

"All your concerns are mine," she answered tranquilly. "I am your
mother."

"And I am your king!" he answered, banging the table. "And I mean to be
king!"

"By the grace of God and the favour of Monsieur de Coligny," she
sneered, with unruffled calm.

"What's that?" His mouth fell open, and his eyes stared. A crimson flush
overspread his muddy complexion. "What's that?"

Her dull glance met and held his own whilst calmly she repeated her
sneering