As soon as Marguerite de Navarre had gone from the room, Gilles de Crohin drew a folded missive from inside his doublet and handed it to Monsieur.
'Just came by messenger from Paris,' he said curtly.
Monsieur snatched eagerly at the missive. It had been carefully folded into a tiny compass, tied with a shell-pink ribbon and sealed with mauve-coloured wax. Monsieur broke the seal and read the letter. A flush—which might have been one of pleasure, of excitement or of anger, or of all three combined—spread over his face. He read the letter again, and a dark frown appeared between his brows. Then he looked up into the face of the one faithful friend whom his many treacheries had not driven from his side.
'Gilles,' he said dolefully, 'I cannot go to Cambray.'
'I thought as much, Monseigneur,' replied Gilles dryly. 'That letter is from Madame de Marquette.'
'It is, my good Gilles,' sighed Monsieur. 'It is!' Then as Gilles said nothing, he added fretfully: 'She had promised to let me know as soon as Monsieur le Comte, her husband, would be absent from Paris.'
'Ah!' was Gilles' simple comment. 'And is M. le Comte de Marquette absent from Paris at this moment?'
'Cooling his heels in the dungeons of Vincennes, my good Gilles,' replied Monsieur lightly.
'Ah!' uttered Gilles once more; this time without any comment.
'Yes. I let His Majesty, my brother, know indirectly of certain doings of Monsieur de Marquette. I have no doubt, therefore, that that estimable worthy is incarcerated at Vincennes by now.'