rothed, 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.