"My mother, he braves me--he outrages me!"
"I mean that with age the feelings grow calm--that you do not love me as much as you used to do."
"You are wrong, my son," said Catherine coldly; "you are my beloved son, but he of whom you complain is also my son."
"Well, then, madame, I will go to find other counselors capable of feeling for me and of aiding me."
"Go, my son; and may God guide your counselors, for they will have need of it to aid you in this strait."
"Adieu, Henri! I do not pretend to counsel you--you do not need me, I know--but beg your counselors to reflect well before they advise, and still more before they execute."
"Yes, madame, for the position is difficult."
"Very grave," replied she, raising her eyes to heaven.
"Have you any idea who it was that carried him off?" Catherine did not reply.
"I think it was the Angevins," continued the king.
"Enlighten you! I am but a doting old woman, whose only influence lies in her prayers and repentance."
"No, mother; speak, you are the cleverest of us all."
"Useless; I have only ideas of the last century; at my age it is impossible I should give good counsel."
"Well, then, mother, refuse me your counsel, deprive me of your aid. In an hour I will hang all the Angevins in Paris."
"Hang all the Angevins!" cried Catherine, in amazement.
"Yes, hang, slay, massacre, burn; already, perhaps, my friends are out to begin the work."
"They will ruin themselves, and you with them."
"Blind! Will kings eternally have eyes, and not see?"
"Kings must avenge their injuries, it is but justice, and in this case all my subjects will rise to defend me."
"You will make oceans of blood flow. The standard of revolt will soon be raised; and you will arm against you a host who never would rise for François."
"But if I do not revenge myself they will think I am afraid."
"Did any one ever think I was afraid? Besides, it was not the Angevins."
"Who was it then? it must have been my brother's friends."
"O! my son, you know you have never had but one; yours, mine, your brother Charles's; always the same."
"Do you know who is at Paris, and who is not? No, you are all deaf and blind."
"My son, at every disappointment you meet with, at every misfortune that happens to you of which the author is unknown, do not seek or conjecture; it is useless. Cry out, it is Henri of Navarre, and you will be sure to be right. Strike on the side where he is, and you will be sure to strike right. Oh! that man, that man; he is the sword suspended over the head of the Valois."