His countenance matched his raiment.
Keeneyed, broad of brow, with a high-bridged, pendulous nose, red
lips, a tuft of beard and a pair of grizzled, bristling
moustachios, he looked half-hero, half-satyr; half-Captain, half-
Polichinelle.
Sully, tall and broad, the incarnation of respectability and
dignity, despite bed-gown and slippers and the nightcap covering
his high, bald crown, made no presence of misunderstanding him.
"Of you and the Princesse de Conde, you mean, sire?" quoth he,
and gravely he shook his head. "It is a matter that has filled me
with apprehension, for I foresee from it far greater trouble than
from any former attachment of yours."
"So they have convinced you, too, Grand-Master?" Henry's tone was
almost sorrowful. "Yet I swear that all is greatly exaggerated.
It is the work of that dog Concini. Ventre St. Gris! If he has no
respect for me, at least he might consider how he slanders a
child of such grace and wit and beauty, a lady of her high birth
and noble lineage."
There was a dangerous quiver of emotion in his voice that was not
missed by the keen ears of Sully. Henry moved from the window,
and flung into a chair.
"Concini works to enrage the Queen against me, and to drive her
to take violent resolutions which might give colour to their
pernicious designs.
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