Count Hannibal | Page 9

"I say I congratulate you!"
"But it is nothing."
"Oh, I understand. And see, the King is about to rise. Go forward,
Monsieur," he continued benevolently. "A young man should show
himself. Besides, his Majesty likes you well," he added, with a leer. He
had an unpleasant sense of humour, had his Majesty's Captain of the
Guard; and this evening somewhat more than ordinary on which to
exercise it.
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 Cosse 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