Tignonville held too good an opinion of himself to suspect the other of badinage; and thus encouraged, he pushed his way to the front of the circle. During his absence with his betrothed, the crowd in the Chamber had grown thin, the candles had burned an inch shorter in the sconces. But though many who had been there had left, the more select remained, and the King’s return to his seat had given the company a fillip. An air of feverish gaiety, common in the unhealthy life of the Court, prevailed. At a table abreast of the King, Montpensier and Marshal Cossé were dicing and disputing, with now a yell of glee, and now an oath, that betrayed which way fortune inclined. At the back of the King’s chair, Chicot, his gentleman-jester, hung over Charles’s shoulder, now scanning his cards, and now making hideous faces that threw the on-lookers into fits of laughter. Farther up the Chamber, at the end of the alcove, Marshal Tavannes—our Hannibal’s brother—occupied a low stool, which was set opposite the open door of the closet. Through this doorway a slender foot, silk-clad, shot now and again into sight; it came, it vanished, it came again, the gallant Marshal striving at each appearance to rob it of its slipper, a dainty jewelled thing of crimson velvet. He failed thrice, a peal of laughter greeting each failure. At the fourth essay, he upset his stool and fell to the floor, but held the slipper. And not the slipper only, but the foot. Amid a flutter of silken skirts and dainty laces—while the hidden beauty shrilly protested—he dragged first the ankle, and then a shapely leg into sight. The circle applauded; the lady, feeling herself still drawn on, screamed loudly and more loudly. All save the King and his opponent turned to look. And then the sport came to a sudden end. A sinewy hand appeared, interposed, released; for an instant the dark, handsome face of Guise looked through the doorway. It was gone as soon as seen; it was there a second only. But more than one recognised it, and wondered. For was not the young Duke in evil odour with the King by reason of the attack on the Admiral? And had he not been chased from Paris only that morning and forbidden to return?
They were still wondering, still gazing, when abruptly—as he did all things—Charles thrust back his chair.
“Foucauld, you owe me ten pieces!” he cried with glee, and he slapped the table. “Pay, my friend; pay!”
“To-morrow, little master; to-morrow!” Rochefoucauld answered in the same tone. And he rose to his feet.
“To-morrow!” Charles repeated. “To-morrow?” And on the word his jaw fell. He looked wildly round. His face was ghastly.
“Well, sire, and why not?” Rochefoucauld answered in astonishment. And in his turn he looked round, wondering; and a chill fell on him. “Why not?” he repeated.
For a moment no one answered him: the silence in the Chamber was intense. Where he looked, wherever he looked, he met solemn, wondering eyes, such eyes as gaze on men in their coffins.
“What has come to you all?” he cried, with an effort. “What is the jest, for faith, sire, I don’t see it?”
The King seemed incapable of speech, and it was Chicot who filled the gap.
“It is pretty apparent,” he said, with a rude laugh. “The cock will lay and Foucauld will pay—to-morrow!”
The young nobleman’s colour rose; between him and the Gascon gentleman was no love lost.
“There are some debts I pay to-day,” he cried haughtily. “For the rest, farewell my little master! When one does not understand the jest it is time to be gone.”
He was halfway to the door, watched by all, when the King spoke.
“Foucauld!” he cried, in an odd, strangled voice. “Foucauld!” And the Huguenot favourite turned back, wondering. “One minute!” the King continued, in the same forced voice. “Stay till morning—in my closet. It is late now. We’ll play away the rest of the night!”
“Your Majesty must excuse me,” Rochefoucauld answered frankly. “I am dead asleep.”
“You can sleep in the Garde-Robe,” the King persisted.
“Thank you for nothing, sire!” was the gay answer. “I know that bed! I shall sleep longer and better in my own.”
The King shuddered, but strove to hide the movement under a shrug of his shoulders. He turned away.
“It is God’s will!” he muttered. He was white to the lips.
Rochefoucauld did not catch the words. “Good night, sire,” he cried. “Farewell, little master.” And with a nod here and there, he passed to the door, followed by Mergey and Chamont, two gentlemen of his suite.
Nançay raised the curtain with an obsequious gesture. “Pardon me, M. le Comte,” he said, “do you go to his Highness’s?”
“For a few minutes, Nançay.”
“Permit me to go with you. The guards may be set.”
“Do so, my friend,” Rochefoucauld answered. “Ah, Tignonville, is it you?”
“I am come to attend you to your lodging,” the young man said. And he ranged up beside the other, as, the curtain fallen behind them, they walked along the gallery.
Rochefoucauld stopped and laid his hand on Tignonville’s sleeve.
“Thanks, dear lad,” he said, “but I am going to the Princess Dowager’s. Afterwards to his Highness’s. I may be detained an hour or more. You will not like to wait so long.”
M. de Tignonville’s face fell ludicrously. “Well, no,” he said. “I—I don’t think I could wait so long—to-night.”
“Then come to-morrow night,” Rochefoucauld answered, with good nature.
“With pleasure,” the other cried heartily, his relief evident. “Certainly. With pleasure.” And, nodding good night, they parted.
While Rochefoucauld, with Nançay at his side and his gentlemen attending him, passed along the echoing and now empty gallery, the younger man bounded down the stairs to the great hall of the Caryatides, his face radiant. He for one was not sleepy.
CHAPTER III. THE HOUSE NEXT THE GOLDEN MAID.
We have it on record that before the Comte de la Rochefoucauld left the Louvre that night he received the strongest hints of the peril which threatened him; and at least one written warning was handed to him by a stranger in black, and by him in turn was communicated to the King of Navarre. We are told further that when he took his final leave, about the hour of eleven, he found the courtyard brilliantly lighted, and the three companies of guards—Swiss, Scotch, and French—drawn up in ranked array from the door of the great hall to the gate which opened on the street. But, the chronicler adds, neither this precaution, sinister as it appeared to some of his suite, nor the grave farewell which Rambouillet, from his post at the gate, took of one of his gentlemen, shook that chivalrous soul or sapped its generous confidence.
M. de Tignonville was young and less versed in danger than the Governor of Rochelle; with him, had he seen so much, it might have been different. But he left the Louvre an hour earlier—at a time when the precincts of the palace, gloomy-seeming to us in the light cast by coming events, wore their wonted aspect. His thoughts, moreover, as he crossed the courtyard, were otherwise employed. So much so, indeed, that though he signed to his two servants to follow him, he seemed barely conscious what he was doing; nor did he shake off his reverie until he reached the corner of the Rue Baillet. Here the voices of the Swiss who stood on guard opposite Coligny’s lodgings, at the end of the Rue Bethizy, could be plainly heard. They had kindled a fire in an iron basket set in the middle of the road, and