Suddenly I heard steps on the stairs, the word of the night was asked, and Monmouth's voice made answer "Saint Denis"; for just now everything was French in compliment to Madame. The steps continued to ascend; the light in the corridor was very dim, but a moment later I perceived Monmouth and Carford. Carford's arm was through his Grace's, and he seemed to be endeavouring to restrain him. Monmouth shook him off with a laugh and an oath.
"I'm not going to listen," he cried. "Why should I listen? Do I want to hear the King praying to the Virgin?"
"Silence, for God's sake, silence, your Grace," implored Carford.
"That's what he does, isn't it? He, and the Queen's Chaplain, and the——"
"Pray, sir!"
"And our good M. de Perrencourt, then?" He burst into a bitter laugh as he mentioned the gentleman's name.
I had heard more than was meant for my ears, and what was enough (if I may use a distinction drawn by my old friend the Vicar) for my understanding. I was in doubt whether to declare my presence or not. Had Monmouth been alone, I would have shown myself directly, but I did not wish Carford to be aware that I had overheard so much. I sat still a moment longer in hesitation; then I uttered a loud yawn, groaned, stretched myself, rose to my feet, and gave a sudden and very obvious start, as I let my eyes fall on the Duke.
"Why, Simon," he cried, "what brings you here?"
"I thought your Grace was in the King's cabinet," I answered.