Perhaps the chill that possessed her came of that lack, which she neither defined nor acknowledged. Or possibly it came of the night air, August though it was; or of sheer nervousness, or of the remembrance of Count Hannibal’s smile. Whatever its origin, she took it to bed with her and long after the house slept round her, long after the crowded quarter of the Halles had begun to heave and the Sorbonne to vomit a black-frocked band, long after the tall houses in the gabled streets, from St. Antoine to Montmartre and from St. Denis on the north to St. Jacques on the south, had burst into rows of twinkling lights—nay, long after the Quarter of the Louvre alone remained dark, girdled by this strange midnight brightness—she lay awake. At length she too slept, and dreamed of home and the wide skies of Poitou, and her castle of Vrillac washed day and night by the Biscay tides.
CHAPTER II. HANNIBAL DE SAULX, COMTE DE TAVANNES.
“Tavannes!”
“Sire.”
Tavannes, we know, had been slow to obey the summons. Emerging from the crowd, he found that the King, with Retz and Rambouillet, his Marshal des Logis, had retired to the farther end of the Chamber; apparently Charles had forgotten that he had called. His head a little bent—he was tall and had a natural stoop—the King seemed to be listening to a low but continuous murmur of voices which proceeded from the door of his closet. One voice frequently raised was beyond doubt a woman’s; a foreign accent, smooth and silky, marked another; a third, that from time to time broke in, wilful and impetuous, was the voice of Monsieur, the King’s brother, Catherine de Médicis’ favourite son. Tavannes, waiting respectfully two paces behind the King, could catch little that was said; but Charles, something more, it seemed, for on a sudden he laughed, a violent, mirthless laugh. And he clapped Rambouillet on the shoulder.
“There!” he said, with one of his horrible oaths, “ ’tis settled! ’Tis settled! Go, man, and take your orders! And you, M. de Retz,” he continued, in a tone of savage mockery, “go, my lord, and give them!”
“I, sire?” the Italian Marshal answered, in accents of deprecation. There were times when the young King would show his impatience of the Italian ring, the Retzs and Biragues, the Strozzis and Gondys, with whom his mother surrounded him.
“Yes, you!” Charles answered. “You and my lady mother! And in God’s name answer for it at the day!” he continued vehemently. “You will have it! You will not let me rest till you have it! Then have it, only see to it, it be done thoroughly! There shall not be one left to cast it in the King’s teeth and cry, ‘Et tu, Carole!’ Swim, swim in blood if you will,” he continued, with growing wildness. “Oh, ’twill be a merry night! And it’s true so far, you may kill fleas all day, but burn the coat, and there’s an end. So burn it, burn it, and—” He broke off with a start as he discovered Tavannes at his elbow. “God’s death, man!” he cried roughly, “who sent for you?”
“Your Majesty called me,” Tavannes answered; while, partly urged by the King’s hand, and partly anxious to escape, the others slipped into the closet and left them together.
“I sent for you? I called your brother, the Marshal!”
“He is within, sire,” Tavannes answered, indicating the closet. “A moment ago I heard his voice.”
Charles passed his shaking hand across his eyes. “Is he?” he muttered. “So he is! I heard it too. And—and a man cannot be in two places at once!” Then, while his haggard gaze, passing by Tavannes, roved round the Chamber, he laid his hand on Count Hannibal’s breast. “They give me no peace, Madame and the Guises,” he whispered, his face hectic with excitement. “They will have it. They say that Coligny—they say that he beards me in my own palace. And—and, mordieu,” with sudden violence, “it’s true. It’s true enough! It was but to-day he was for making terms with me! With me, the King! Making terms! So it shall be, by God and Devil, it shall! But not six or seven! No, no. All! All! There shall not be one left to say to me, ‘You did it!’ ”
“Softly, sire,” Tavannes answered; for Charles had gradually raised his voice. “You will be observed.”
For the first time the young King—he was but twenty-two years old, God pity him!—looked at his companion.
“To be sure,” he whispered; and his eyes grew cunning. “Besides, and after all, there’s another way, if I choose. Oh, I’ve thought and thought, I’d have you know.” And shrugging his shoulders, almost to his ears, he raised and lowered his open hands alternately, while his back hid the movement from the Chamber. “See-saw! See-saw!” he muttered. “And the King between the two, you see. That’s Madame’s king-craft. She’s shown me that a hundred times. But look you, it is as easy to lower the one as the other,” with a cunning glance at Tavannes’ face, “or to cut off the right as the left. And—and the Admiral’s an old man and will pass; and for the matter of that I like to hear him talk. He talks well. While the others, Guise and his kind, are young, and I’ve thought, oh, yes, I’ve thought—but there,” with a sudden harsh laugh, “my lady mother will have it her own way. And for this time she shall, but, All! All! Even Foucauld, there! Do you mark him. He’s sorting the cards. Do you see him—as he will be to-morrow, with the slit in his throat and his teeth showing? Why, God!” his voice rising almost to a scream, “the candles by him are burning blue!” And with a shaking hand, his face convulsed, the young King clutched his companion’s arm, and pinched it.
Count Hannibal shrugged his shoulders, but answered nothing.
“D’you think we shall see them afterwards?” Charles resumed, in a sharp, eager whisper. “In our dreams, man? Or when the watchman cries, and we awake, and the monks are singing lauds at St. Germain, and—and the taper is low?”
Tavannes’ lip curled. “I don’t dream, sire,” he answered coldly, “and I seldom wake. For the rest, I fear my enemies neither alive nor dead.”
“Don’t you? By G-d, I wish I didn’t,” the young man exclaimed. His brow was wet with sweat. “I wish I didn’t. But there, it’s settled. They’ve settled it, and I would it were done! What do you think of—of it, man? What do you think of it, yourself?”
Count Hannibal’s face was inscrutable. “I think nothing, sire,” he said dryly. “It is for your Majesty and your council to think. It is enough for me that it is the King’s will.”
“But you’ll not flinch?” Charles muttered, with a quick look of suspicion. “But there,” with a monstrous oath, “I know you’ll not! I believe you’d as soon kill a monk—though, thank God,” and he crossed himself devoutly, “there is no question of that—as a man. And sooner than a maiden.”
“Much sooner, sire,” Tavannes answered grimly. “If you have any orders in the monkish direction—no? Then your Majesty must not talk to me longer. M. de Rochefoucauld is beginning to wonder what is keeping your Majesty from your game. And others are marking you, sire.”
“By the Lord!” Charles exclaimed, a ring of wonder mingled with horror in his tone, “if they knew what was in our minds they’d mark us more! Yet, see Nançay there beside the door? He is unmoved. He looks to-day as he looked yesterday. Yet he has charge of the work in the palace—”
For the first time Tavannes allowed a movement of surprise to escape him.
“In the palace?” he muttered. “Is it to be done here, too, sire?”
“Would you let some escape, to return by-and-by and cut our throats?” the King retorted,