“Why! my dear Mary, already out of bed?  Is it daylight?” said the young king, waking up.

“My dear darling, while we were asleep the wicked waked, and now they are forcing us to leave this delightful place.”

“What makes you think of wicked people, my treasure?  I am sure we enjoyed the prettiest fete in the world last night—­if it were not for the Latin words those gentlemen will put into our French.”

“Ah!” said Mary, “your language is really in very good taste, and Rabelais exhibits it finely.”

“You are such a learned woman!  I am so vexed that I can’t sing your praises in verse.  If I were not the king, I would take my brother’s tutor, Amyot, and let him make me as accomplished as Charles.”

“You need not envy your brother, who writes verses and shows them to me, asking for mine in return.  You are the best of the four, and will make as good a king as you are the dearest of lovers.  Perhaps that is why your mother does not like you!  But never mind!  I, dear heart, will love you for all the world.”

“I have no great merit in loving such a perfect queen,” said the little king.  “I don’t know what prevented me from kissing you before the whole court when you danced the branle with the torches last night!  I saw plainly that all the other women were mere servants compared to you, my beautiful Mary.”

“It may be only prose you speak, but it is ravishing speech, dear darling, for it is love that says those words.  And you—­you know well, my beloved, that were you only a poor little page, I should love you as much as I do now.  And yet, there is nothing so sweet as to whisper to one’s self:  ‘My lover is king!’”

“Oh! the pretty arm!  Why must we dress ourselves?  I love to pass my fingers through your silky hair and tangle its blond curls.  Ah ca! sweet one, don’t let your women kiss that pretty throat and those white shoulders any more; don’t allow it, I say.  It is too much that the fogs of Scotland ever touched them!”

“Won’t you come with me to see my dear country?  The Scotch love you; there are no rebellions there!”

“Who rebels in this our kingdom?” said Francois, crossing his dressing-gown and taking Mary Stuart on his knee.

“Oh! ’tis all very charming, I know that,” she said, withdrawing her cheek from the king; “but it is your business to reign, if you please, my sweet sire.”

“Why talk of reigning?  This morning I wish—­”

“Why say wish when you have only to will all?  That’s not the speech of a king, nor that of a lover.—­But no more of love just now; let us drop it!  We have business more important to speak of.”

“Oh!” cried the king, “it is long since we have had any business.  Is it amusing?”

“No,” said Mary, “not at all; we are to move from Blois.”

“I’ll wager, darling, you have seen your uncles, who manage so well that I, at seventeen years of age, am no better than a roi faineant.  In fact, I don’t know why I have attended any of the councils since the first.  They could manage matters just as well by putting the crown in my chair; I see only through their eyes, and am forced to consent to things blindly.”