“Oh!” growled Taverney.
“Now, monsieur wishes to give his son Philippe de Taverney, to the Queen Marie Antoinette; ask him if I speak the truth.”
“On my word,” said Taverney, trembling, “this man is a sorcerer; devil take me if he is not!”
“Do not speak so cavalierly of the devil, my old comrade,” said the marshal.
“It is frightful,” murmured Taverney, and he turned to implore Cagliostro to be discreet, but he was gone.
“Come, Taverney, to the drawing-room,” said the marshal; “or they will drink their coffee without us.”
But when they arrived there, the room was empty; no one had courage to face again the author of these terrible predictions.
The wax lights burned in the candelabra, the fire burned on the hearth, but all for nothing.
“Ma foi, old friend, it seems we must take our coffee tête-à-tête. Why, where the devil has he gone?” Richelieu looked all around him, but Taverney had vanished like the rest. “Never mind,” said the marshal, chuckling as Voltaire might have done, and rubbing his withered though still white hands; “I shall be the only one to die in my bed. Well, Count Cagliostro, at least I believe. In my bed! that was it; I shall die in my bed, and I trust not for a long time. Hola! my valet-de-chambre and my drops.”
The valet entered with the bottle, and the marshal went with him into the bedroom.