‘Nous ne brullons que pour bruller les autres.’
And I wish you could see all the fine things we shall do if we are fortunate enough to come to blows.”
The fair Marion, who did not like him, began to talk over his head to M. de Thou—a mortification which always exasperated the little Abbe, who abruptly left her, walking as tall as he could, and scornfully twisting his moustache.
All at once a sudden silence took possession of the assembly. A rolled paper had struck the ceiling and fallen at the feet of Cinq-Mars. He picked it up and unrolled it, after having looked eagerly around him. He sought in vain to divine whence it came; all those who advanced had only astonishment and intense curiosity depicted in their faces.
“Here is my name wrongly written,” he said coldly.
“A CINQ MARCS,
CENTURIE DE NOSTRADAMUS.
Quand bonnet rouge passera par la fenetre,
A quarante onces on coupera tete,
Et tout finira.”
[This punning prediction was made public three months before the,
conspiracy.]
“There is a traitor among us, gentlemen,” he said, throwing away the paper. “But no matter. We are not men to be frightened by his sanguinary jests.”
“We must find the traitor out, and throw him through the window,” said the young men.
Still, a disagreeable sensation had come over the assembly. They now only spoke in whispers, and each regarded his neighbor with distrust. Some withdrew; the meeting grew thinner. Marion de Lorme repeated to every one that she would dismiss her servants, who alone could be suspected. Despite her efforts a coldness reigned throughout the apartment. The first sentences of Cinq-Mars’ address, too, had left some uncertainty as to the intentions of the King; and this untimely candor had somewhat shaken a few of the less determined conspirators.
Gondi pointed this out to Cinq-Mars.