As the banquet drew to its close there was little gravity or decorum left around the festive board. Even the oldest and the gravest had yielded to the delights of untrammelled gorging. The food was excellent, the wines beyond praise; every one knew every one else; they were all friends, companions together, allied by political or business interests—in many cases by blood. The veneer of civilization as shown by sober manners had not yet come to be thought more necessary than good cheer and conviviality.
The heat in the room had become oppressive. The smoke from innumerable wax candles made a blue haze overhead, a veil of mist which hid the high, vaulted ceiling and caused the lights to flicker dimly. The men had cast aside their mantles and loosened their sword-belts; the ladies used their plumed fans vigorously. There was little left on the table even of the elaborate dishes pertaining to the third service: platters and silver épergnes were for the most part empty; only now and again some one would lean over and desultorily pick at a piece of lobster or a truffle—an excuse, mayhap, for washing down the highly-spiced food with another bumper of wine.
Conversation, loud jests—some of them both ribald and coarse—flew over and across the tables, loud calls were made to friends who sat far away. The time had come for casting off the last shred of ceremonial decorum which stood in the way of unbridled hilarity. The ladies, at the instance of their respective cavaliers, had cast aside their masks one by one, and their comely faces appeared, crimson and steaming even beneath the thick layers of cosmetics.
Jacqueline was one of the few who remained quite calm and cool. She plied her fan with lazy grace and kept on her mask—despite the earnest, whispered entreaties of M. de Landas and of a group of young gallants who had gathered round her.
Gilles had already made up his mind to go. He felt stifled under his mask and the heat of the room, the heady fumes of wine and food rendered him stupid and dizzy. There appeared to be no chance of his being able to approach Jacqueline again, short of provoking a quarrel with her Spanish watch-dog, which Gilles would have thought impolitic to do. On the whole, he thought that it would be best to retire for the nonce from the scene. His day had not been altogether unsuccessful: it was the fifth since his arrival in Cambray, and surely Madame la Reyne de Navarre would by now be on the track of her truant brother. Gilles' probation could not last many days longer, and in the meanwhile he had definitely made up his mind that Monsieur's future bride was adorable, and that she already evinced a more than passing interest in the masked stranger who had serenaded her so boldly from beneath her casement-window.
Not a bad beginning, thought Messire, as he gave a wink to Jehan to follow him and rose from his seat. The moment which he chose appeared a favourable one: the etiquette of the supper table was considerably relaxed; those of Monseigneur's guests who wished to do so had taken to moving about from place to place, according as they desired to speak with friends; whilst some who wished to hold private converse together, or who were on the point of leaving, actually walked out of the room.
This was Gilles' opportunity. Just then Monseigneur d'Inchy rose also. Monsieur le Prince d'Eremberghe and his lady were about to take their leave. They were personages of vast importance and the host desired to do them special honour. Accompanied by de Lalain, he escorted his departing guests to the door, and thence, having the Princess on his arm, he went out into the antechamber, followed by de Lalain and the Prince. He had not noticed Gilles, and the latter stood for a moment or two in the centre of the room, alone with Jehan, and momentarily undecided. He surveyed the group at the head of the table with a critical frown: the young gallants—there were six of them—were crowding round Madame, some leaning across the table, others pressing close to her chair. She may have been amused at the platitudes wherewith they were regaling her; she may have enjoyed their conversation and M. de Landas' ardent glances—she may have done all that, I say, and thought no more of the man standing there alone in the middle of the room than if he had been one of her lacqueys. But, as chance would have it—or was it indeed Gilles' compelling look which drew her own?—certain it is that she turned her head in his direction and that he felt that she was regarding him quizzically, searchingly, through the eye-slits of her mask.
Quickly he gave a few whispered instructions to his faithful Jehan; then he calmly strode across the room.
Monseigneur the governor was still absent: his seat beside Madame Jacqueline was empty. Gilles walked up the length of the table—no one heeded him—and before any one—least of all M. de Landas—was aware of his intention, sat down quite coolly on M. d'Inchy's vacant chair, immediately next to Jacqueline.