The matter so preyed
upon his mind that last he unburdened himself to Sully one day at
the Arsenal.
"Oh, my friend," he cried, "this coronation does not please me.
My heart tells me that some fatality will follow."
He sat down, grasping the case of his reading-glass, whilst Sully
could only stare at him amazed by this out-burst. Thus he remained
awhile in deep thought. Then he started up again.
"Pardieu!" he cried. "I shall be murdered in this city. It is
their only resource. I see it plainly. This cursed coronation
will be the cause of my death."
"What a thought, sir!"
"You think that I have been reading the almanach or paying heed
to the prophets, eh? But listen to me now, Grand Master." And
wrinkles deepened about the bold, piercing eyes. "It is four
months and more since we announced our intention of going to war,
and France has resounded with our preparations. We have made no
secret of it. Yet in Spain not a finger has been lifted in
preparation to resist us, not a sword has been sharpened. Upon
what does Spain build? Whence her confidence that in despite of
my firm resolve and my abundant preparations, despite the fact
announced that I am to march on the lath of this month, despite
the fact that my troops are already in Champagne with a train of
artillery so complete and well-furnished that France has never
seen the like of it, and perhaps never will again--whence the
confidence that despite all this there is no need to prepare
defences? Upon what do they build, I say, when they assume, as
assume they must, that there will be no war? Resolve me that,
Grand Master.
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