“Monseigneur,” said Aurilly, “here is a heap of stones which seems made on purpose for us.”
“Yes, but wait a moment, perhaps we can see through the opening of the curtain.” And they stood for some minutes trying to find a place to peep through. Meanwhile, Monsoreau was boiling with impatience, and his hand approached the musket.
“Oh! shall I suffer this?” murmured he, “shall I devour this affront also? No, my patience is worn out. Mordieu! that I can neither sleep, nor wake, nor even suffer quietly, because a shameful caprice has lodged in the idle brain of this miserable prince. No, I am not a complaisant valet; I am the Comte de Monsoreau, and if he comes near, on my word, I will blow his brains out. Light the match, René.”
At this moment, just as the prince was about to seek his hiding-place, leaving his companion to knock at the door, Aurilly touched his arm.
“Well, monsieur, what is it?” asked the prince.
“Come away, monseigneur, come.”
“Why so?”
“Do you not see something shining there to the left?”
“I see a spark among that heap of stones.”
“It is the match of a musket, or arquebuse.”