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This was done by M. de Pibrac, thinking I might be induced, from such mortifications, to return to France, where he enjoyed the offices of president and King's counsellor. I now met with a fresh cause for disquietude in my present situation, for, Dayelle being gone, the King my husband placed his affections on Rebours.
The queen sprang from the bed and placed herself in a large arm-chair of red velvet before the fireplace, after Dayelle had given her a dressing-gown of black velvet, which she fastened loosely round her waist by a silken cord. Dayelle lit the fire, for the mornings are cool on the banks of the Loire in the month of May.
"What! has the king a mistress in every town?" "Very likely; I know that he was the lover of Mlle. de Dayelle, while I was in garrison at Castelnaudry." "Oh! Mlle. Dayelle, a Greek, was she not?" "Yes," said the priest; "a Cyprian." "I am from Agen," said the merchant; "and I know that when the king was there he made love to Mlle. de Tignonville."
For my husband had been greatly smitten with Dayelle, and M. de Thurene was in love with La Vergne. However, I received every mark of honour and attention from the King that I could expect or desire.
"The science of my fathers in that direction gave them thrones; whereas if you continue to trifle in the midst of danger you are liable to lose yours." It was at this moment that Ambroise Pare, the chief surgeon, scratched softly on the door, and Madame Dayelle, opening it, admitted Christophe.
"Ventre de biche!" said Chicot; "he is a universal lover. But to return to Mlle. Dayelle; I knew her family." "She was jealous and was always threatening; she had a pretty little poniard, which she used to keep on her work-table, and one day, the king went away and carried the poniard with him, saying that he did not wish any misfortune to happen to his successor." "And Mlle. de Rebours?"
"It's 'The Story of the Files," she explained. "Among other things, all the good fugitive verse was gathered here from the old newspaper files." Her eyes running down the index suddenly stopped. "I was right. Dayelle Wiley Brown. There it is. Ten of her poems, too: 'The Viking's Quest'; 'Days of Gold'; 'Constancy'; 'The Caballero'; 'Graves at Little Meadow' "
"Oh! madame, is the king still asleep?" "Yes." "We are to leave the chateau; Monsieur le cardinal requests me to tell you so, and to ask you to make the king agree to it. "Do you know why, my good Dayelle?" "The Reformers want to seize you and carry you off." "Ah! that new religion does not leave me a minute's peace!
This annoyance was not the least among the many which the queen-mother cherished against the young queen. "Is the queen reproving me?" said Catherine, turning to Mary. "I owe you all respect, and should not dare to do so," said the Scottish queen, maliciously, glancing at Dayelle.
You'd better get your clothes off. Keep on only your shoes and pants, unless you've got a pair of trunks." "My mother was a poet," Saxon said, while Billy was getting himself ready in the thicket. She had noted Hall's reference to himself. He seemed incurious, and she ventured further. "Some of it was printed." "What was her name?" he asked idly. "Dayelle Wiley Brown.
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