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.
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