‘A toast!’ cried Henri, rising. ‘Aux Amours!’
‘In Burgundy!’ roared a chorus of voices. ‘And les hanapes.’
The large cups so called—heirlooms in the family of D’Aubray, were brought forward by the attendants. Lachaussée had entered the room whilst the conversation we have narrated was in progress; and, taking his place at the buffet, had silently and sedulously officiated amongst the other attendants, without exciting notice. Almost every guest had his servants there, and such was the confusion of liveries that the presence of a strange valet, wearing the Brinvilliers’ colours, was not likely to call forth remark. He it was who, taking a bottle of Burgundy, now stationed himself behind the chair of François, who, mechanically lifting his cup, did not observe that the hand which filled it held a phial, and that some drops of the contents mingled with the wine.
The number of hanapes was four, and they were passed from hand to hand. François, after drinking, handed his to Henri, who honoured his own toast like a hardy drinker. As he passed it to De Villeaume, Lachaussée, pretending to reach over him for something, contrived to knock the goblet from his hand and spill its contents. A storm of abuse for his awkwardness was the result, under which he managed to leave the room with as little notice as he had caused by entering it.
Chafed by the wine they had drunk, the mirth of the party waxed wilder and louder. Songs were sung; games at tennis and ombre arranged; bets settled; parties de chasses organised. The revelry was at its highest pitch, when a series of loud and sudden shrieks was heard from the staircase. It was a woman’s voice that uttered them, and a rush was directly made by the guests in the direction of the sound.
They found Louise Gauthier struggling in the hands of some of the valets on the landing-place. The room into which she had been hurried by the Marchioness had another exit, which was unlocked. This she had soon discovered on regaining her presence of mind, and in attempting to leave the hôtel by it, she had been seen and rudely seized by the servants, who were amused by her terror. To D’Aubray’s guests, flushed as they were with wine, the sight of a woman was a new incentive, and poor Louise would have fared worse at the hands of the masters than of the servants had it not been for the interposition of François d’Aubray, who, pressing through the crowd that surrounded the frightened and fainting girl, bade all stand back in a tone that enforced obedience.
‘Who are you?’ he asked, ‘and what business brings you here?’
‘I am a poor girl; brought here for what reason I know not, by Madame la Marquise, not an hour since,’ replied Louise, reassured by the calmness of his manner, which contrasted strangely with the wildness and recklessness of all around.
‘Mort de ma vie! by Madame la Marquise!’ cried Henri. ‘She is here, then?’
‘We entered together,’ said Louise.