From the quarter of the markets
north of him, a quarter which fenced in the cemetery on two sides, the
same dull murmur proceeded, which Mademoiselle de Vrillac had remarked an
hour earlier. The sky above the cemetery glowed with reflected light,
the cause of which was not far to seek, for every window of the tall
houses that overlooked it, and the huddle of booths about it, contributed
a share of the illumination. At an hour late even for Paris, an hour
when honest men should have been sunk in slumber, this strange brilliance
did for a moment perplex him; but the past week had been so full of
fetes, of masques and frolics, often devised on the moment and dependent
on the King's whim, that he set this also down to such a cause, and
wondered no more.
The lights in the houses did not serve the purpose he had in his mind,
but beside the closed gate of the cemetery, and between two stalls, was a
votive lamp burning before an image of the Mother and Child. He crossed
to this, and assuring himself by a glance to right and left that he stood
in no danger from prowlers, he drew a note from his breast. It had been
slipped into his hand in the gallery before he saw Mademoiselle to her
lodging; it had been in his possession barely an hour. But brief as its
contents were, and easily committed to memory, he had perused it thrice
already.
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