The Bishop's Vicar fidgeted in his chair, his face a shade more shallow,
his cheeks hanging a trifle more loosely, than ordinary.
"If my brother were here!" he muttered. "If M. de Montsoreau had
arrived!"
But Father Pezelay knew whose will would prevail if Montsoreau met
Tavannes at his leisure. To force Montsoreau's hand, therefore, to
surround him on his first entrance with a howling mob already committed
to violence, to set him at their head and pledge him before he knew with
whom he had to do--this had been, this still was, the priest's design.
But how was he to pursue it while those gibbets stood? While their
shadows lay even on the chapter table, and darkened the faces of his most
forward associates? That for a moment staggered the priest; and had not
private hatred, ever renewed by the touch of the scar on his brow, fed
the fire of bigotry he had yielded, as the rabble of Angers were
yielding, reluctant and scowling, to the hand which held the city in its
grip. But to have come so far on the wings of hate, and to do nothing!
To have come avowedly to preach a crusade, and to sneak away cowed! To
have dragged the Bishop's Vicar hither, and fawned and cajoled and
threatened by turns--and for nothing! These things were passing
bitter--passing bitter, when the morsel of vengeance he had foreseen
smacked so sweet on the tongue.
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