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.
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