“And Rochefoucauld, doubtless, sire?”
The King, whose eye had sought his favourite companion, withdrew it. He darted a glance at Tavannes.
“Foucauld? Who said so?” he muttered jealously. “Not I! But we shall see. We shall see! And do you see that you spare no one, M. le Comte, without an order. That is your business.”
“I understand, sire,” Tavannes answered coolly. And after a moment’s silence, seeing that the King had done with him, he bowed low and withdrew; watched by the circle, as all about a King were watched in the days when a King’s breath meant life or death, and his smile made the fortunes of men. As he passed Rochefoucauld, the latter looked up and nodded.
“What keeps brother Charles?” he muttered. “He’s madder than ever to-night. Is it a masque or a murder he is planning?”
“The vapours,” Tavannes answered, with a sneer. “Old tales his old nurse has stuffed him withal. He’ll come by-and-by, and ’twill be well if you can divert him.”
“I will, if he come,” Rochefoucauld answered, shuffling the cards. “If not ’tis Chicot’s business, and he should attend to it. I’m tired, and shall to bed.”
“He will come,” Tavannes answered, and moved, as if to go on. Then he paused for a last word. “He will come,” he muttered, stooping and speaking under his breath, his eyes on the other’s face. “But play him lightly. He is in an ugly mood. Please him, if you can, and it may serve.”
The eyes of the two met an instant, and those of Foucauld—so the King called his Huguenot favourite—betrayed some surprise; for Count Hannibal and he were not intimate. But seeing that the other was in earnest, he raised his brows in acknowledgment. Tavannes nodded carelessly in return, looked an instant at the cards on the table, and passed on, pushed his way through the circle, and reached the door. He was lifting the curtain to go out, when Nançay, the Captain of the Guard, plucked his sleeve.
“What have you been saying to Foucauld, M. de Tavannes?” he muttered.
“I?”
“Yes,” with a jealous glance, “you, M. le Comte.”
Count Hannibal looked at him with the sudden ferocity that made the man a proverb at Court.
“What I chose, M. le Capitaine des Suisses!” he hissed. And his hand closed like a vice on the other’s wrist. “What I chose, look you! And remember, another time, that I am not a Huguenot, and say what I please.”
“But there is great need of care,” Nançay protested, stammering and flinching. “And—and I have orders, M. le Comte.”
“Your orders are not for me,” Tavannes answered, releasing his arm with a contemptuous gesture. “And look you, man, do not cross my path to-night. You know our motto? Who touches my brother, touches Tavannes! Be warned by it.”
Nançay scowled. “But the priests say, ‘If your hand offend you, cut it off!’ ” he muttered.
Tavannes laughed, a sinister laugh. “If you offend me I’ll cut your throat,” he said; and with no ceremony he went out, and dropped the curtain behind him.
Nançay looked after him, his face pale with rage. “Curse him!” he whispered, rubbing his wrist. “If he were any one else I would teach him! But he would as soon run you through in the presence as in the Pré aux Clercs! And his brother, the Marshal, has the King’s ear! And Madame Catherine’s too, which is worse!”
He was still fuming, when an officer in the colours of Monsieur, the King’s brother, entered hurriedly, and keeping his hand on the curtain, looked anxiously round the Chamber. As soon as his eye found Nançay, his face cleared.
“Have you the reckoning?” he muttered.
“There are seventeen Huguenots in the palace besides their Highnesses,” Nançay replied, in the same cautious tone. “Not counting two or three who are neither the one thing nor the other. In addition, there are the two Montmorencies; but they are to go safe for fear of their brother, who is not in the trap. He is too like his father, the old Bench-burner, to be lightly wronged! And, besides, there is Paré, who is to go to his Majesty’s closet as soon as the gates are shut. If the King decides to save any one else, he will send him to his closet. So ’tis all clear and arranged here. If you are forward outside, it will be well! Who deals with the gentleman with the tooth-pick?”
“The Admiral? Monsieur, Guise, and the Grand Prior; Cosseins and Besme have charge. ’Tis to be done first. Then the Provost will raise the town. He will have a body of stout fellows ready at three or four rendezvous, so that the fire may blaze up everywhere at once. Marcel, the ex-provost, has the same commission south of the river. Orders to light the town as for a frolic have been given, and the Halles will be ready.”
Nançay nodded, reflected a moment, and then with an involuntary shudder—
“God!” he exclaimed, “it will shake the world!”
“You think so?”
“Ay, will it not!” His next words showed that he bore Tavannes’ warning in mind. “For me, my friend, I go in mail to-night,” he said. “There will be many a score paid before morning, besides his Majesty’s. And many a left-handed blow will be struck in the mêlée!”
The other crossed himself. “Grant none light here!” he said devoutly. And with a last look he nodded and went out.
In the doorway he jostled a person who was in the act of entering. It was M. de Tignonville, who, seeing Nançay at his elbow, saluted him, and stood looking round. The young man’s face was flushed, his eyes were bright with unwonted excitement.
“M. de Rochefoucauld?” he asked eagerly. “He has not left yet?”
Nançay caught the thrill in his voice, and marked the young man’s flushed face and altered bearing. He noted, too, the crumpled paper he carried half-hidden in his hand; and the Captain’s countenance grew dark. He drew a step nearer, and his hand reached softly for his dagger. But his voice, when he spoke, was smooth as the surface of the pleasure-loving Court, smooth as the externals of all things in Paris that summer evening.
“He is here still,” he said. “Have you news, M. de Tignonville?”
“News?”
“For M. de Rochefoucauld?”
Tignonville laughed. “No,” he said. “I am here to see him to his lodging, that is all. News, Captain? What made you think so?”
“That which you have in your hand,” Nançay answered, his fears relieved.
The young man blushed to the roots of his hair. “It is not for him,” he said.
“I can see that, Monsieur,” Nançay answered politely. “He has his successes, but all the billets-doux do not go one way.”
The young man laughed, a conscious, flattered laugh. He was handsome, with such a face as women love, but there was a lack of ease in the way he wore his Court suit. It was a trifle finer, too, than accorded with Huguenot taste; or it looked the finer for the way he wore it, even as Teligny’s and Foucauld’s velvet capes and stiff brocades lost their richness and became but the adjuncts, fitting and graceful, of the men. Odder still, as Tignonville laughed, half hiding and half revealing the dainty scented paper in his hand, his clothes seemed smarter and he more awkward than usual.
“It is from a lady,” he admitted. “But a bit of badinage, I assure you, nothing more!”
“Understood!” M. de Nançay murmured politely. “I congratulate you.”
“But—”
“I say I congratulate