Long ago the famous Nostradamus had told him
that he would live to be a king, but of the smallest kingdom in the
world. "Every man is a king in his coffin," he had answered. "The grave
is cold and your kingdom shall be warm," the wizard had rejoined. On
which the courtiers had laughed, promising him a Moorish island and a
black queen. And he had gibed with the rest, but secretly had taken note
of the sovereign counties of France, their rulers and their heirs. Now
he held the thought in horror, foreseeing no county, but the cage under
the stifling tiles at Loches, in which Cardinal Balue and many another
had worn out their hearts.
He came to that thought not by way of his own peril, but of
Mademoiselle's; which affected him in so novel a fashion that he wondered
at his folly. At last, tired of watching the shadows which the draught
set dancing on the wall, he drew his cloak about him and lay down on the
straw. He had kept vigil the previous night, and in a few minutes, with
a campaigner's ease, he was asleep.
Midnight had struck. About two the light in the lanthorn burned low in
the socket, and with a soft sputtering went out. For an hour after that
the room lay still, silent, dark; then slowly the grey dawn, the greyer
for the river mist which wrapped the neighbourhood in a clammy shroud,
began to creep into the room and discover the vague shapes of things.
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