"Good!" said he, "this is what is now taking place: he has passed through the antechamber, the first room, the sleeping-room; then he glances to see if his sword, his purse, his dagger are there; at last he finds the book open on his table.
"'What book is this?' he asks himself. 'Who has brought it?'
"Then he draws nearer, sees the picture of the horseman calling his falcon, wants to read, tries to turn the leaves."
A cold perspiration started to the brow of François.
"Will he call? Is the effect of the poison sudden? No, no, for my mother said he would die of slow consumption."
This thought somewhat reassured him.
Ten minutes passed thus, a century of agony, dragging by second after second, each supplying all that the imagination could invent in the way of maddening terror, a world of visions.
D'Alençon could stand it no longer. He rose and crossed the antechamber, which was beginning to fill with gentlemen.
"Good morning, gentlemen," said he, "I am going to the King."
And to distract his consuming anxiety, and perhaps to prepare an alibi, D'Alençon descended to his brother's apartments. Why did he go there? He did not know. What had he to say? Nothing! It was not Charles he sought—it was Henry he fled.