It was quite in vain
that Henry wrote to him representing that this conduct was
dishonouring to them both, and that the only place for a prince
of the blood was the court of his sovereign.
The end of it all was that the reckless and romantic Henry took
to night-prowling about the grounds of Conde's chateau. In the
disguise of a peasant you see his Majesty of France and Navarre,
whose will was law in Europe, shivering behind damp hedges,
ankle-deep in wet grass, spending long hours in love-lore,
ecstatic contemplation of her lighted window, and all--so far as
we can gather--for no other result than the aggravation of
certain rheumatic troubles which should have reminded him that he
was no longer of an age to pursue these amorous pernoctations.
But where his stiffening joints failed, the Queen succeeded.
Henry had been spied upon, of course, as he always was when he
strayed from the path of matrimonial rectitude. The Concinis saw
to that. And when they judged the season ripe, they put her
Majesty in possession of the facts. So inflamed was she by this
fresh breach of trust that war was declared anew between the
royal couple, and the best that Sully's wit and labours could now
accomplish was a sort of armed truce.
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