Then, with an abrupt gesture, he went on, ". . . than the Queen
herself?"
Sully quietly placed the letter on the table, and sat down. He
took his chin in his hand and looked squarely across at Henry.
"Sire, you have brought this upon yourself. You have exasperated
her Majesty; you have driven her in despair to seek and act upon
the councils of this scoundrel Concini. There never was an
attachment of yours that did not beget trouble with the Queen,
but never such trouble as I have been foreseeing from your
attachment to the Princess of Conde. Sire, will you not consider
where you stand?"
"They are lies, I tell you," Henry stormed. But Sully the
uncompromising gravely shook his head. "At least," Henry amended,
"they are gross exaggerations. Oh, I confess to you, my friend,
that I am sick with love of her. Day and night I see nothing but
her gracious image. I sigh and fret and fume like any callow lad
of twenty. I suffer the tortures of the damned. And yet . . . and
yet, I swear to you, Sully, that I will curb this passion though
it kill me. I will stifle these fires, though they consume my
soul to ashes. No harm shall come to her from me. No harm has
come yet. I swear it.
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