"We do not agree, Sire; one of us maintains that the Emperor might well refuse to give you the Duchy of Milan, and yet redeem his promise by giving it to your son Charles."
"Which of you makes that suggestion?"
"I think that it was Madame d'Etampes, Sire."
The duchess became pale as death.
"If the Emperor should do that, it would be infamous treachery," said François; "but he'll not do it."
"In any event, even if he does not do it," said Diane, joining in the conversation, "it will not be, I am assured, for lack of advice given him to that effect."
"Given by whom?" cried the king. "By Mahomet's belly! I would be glad to know by whom?"
"Bon Dieu! do not be so disturbed, Sire," rejoined Benvenuto; "we said that as we said other things,—simple conjectures, put forward by us in desultory talk. Madame la Duchesse and I are but bungling politicians, Sire. Madame la Duchesse is too much of a woman to think of aught beside her toilet, although she has no need to think of that; and I, Sire, am too much of an artist to think of aught beside art. Is it not so, Madame la Duchesse?"
"The truth is, my dear Cellini," said François, "that each of you has too glorious a part to play to envy others aught that they may have, even though it were the Duchy of Milan. Madame la Duchesse d'Etampes is queen by virtue of her beauty, and you are king by virtue of your talent."
"King, Sire?"