I am not speaking of the death of my mother--although that
is a wound that will never heal; that came from the hand of
Providence; against its decrees no man dare murmur. I speak of more
bitter, more cruel defeats, occasioned by the ingratitude and
baseness of men."
"Your majesty still thinks of the unworthy Abbot of Prades," said
D'Argens, sadly.
"No, marquis; that hurt, I confess. I liked him, but I never loved
him--he was not my friend, his treachery grieved but did not
surprise me. I knew he was weak. He sold me! Finding himself in my
camp, he made use of his opportunity and betrayed to the enemy all
that came to his knowledge. He had a small soul, and upon such men
you cannot count. But from another source I received a great wrong--
this lies like iron upon my heart, and hardens it. I loved Bishop
Schaffgotsch, marquis; I called him friend; I gave him proof of my
friendship. I had a right to depend on his faithfulness, and believe
in a friendship he had so often confirmed by oaths. My love, at
least was unselfish, and deserved not to be betrayed. But he was
false in the hour of danger, like Peter who betrayed his Master.
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