As she spoke, the duchess, with one of those smiles which belonged to her alone, put out her hand to take the jewel.
"Forgive me, Madame la Duchesse," said Cellini; "but as the lily plays an important part throughout my story, permit me to enforce my words with ocular demonstration."
"The lily plays an important part in the story you have to tell, master?" cried Diane, snatching the flower from the king's hand with a movement swift as thought. "In that case, Madame d'Etampes is right, for if the story is at all what I suspect, it is much better that the lily should be in my hands than in yours, Sire; for, purposely or not, your Majesty might, by some uncontrollable impulse, break it."
Madame d'Etampes became terribly pale, for she deemed herself lost; she hastily seized Benvenuto's hand, and her lips opened to speak, but almost immediately she thought better of it. Her hand let the artist's fall, and her lips closed again.
"Say what you have to say," she muttered through her clenched teeth,—"if you dare!" she added in so low a tone that Benvenuto alone could hear.
"Yes, and measure your words, my master," said the king.
"And do you, madame, measure your silence," said Benvenuto.
"We are waiting!" cried Diane, unable to restrain her impatience.
"Fancy, Sire, and you, madame, fancy that Ascanio and Madame la Duchesse d'Etampes corresponded."
The duchess looked about to see if there were not at hand some weapon with which she could silence the goldsmith's tongue forever.