March had all but completed its course with dust and wind, and at its extreme end Lent had come to a temporary pause for the Carnival.
Armand de la Roche-Guyon had just finished dressing for a costume ball. The long mirror in his dressing-room, reflected him, clad from head to foot in white and gold, in ruff, doublet and hose, a gentleman of the Valois court. The dress, blazing with jewels, had been copied from a well-known picture of Charles IX. From the little flat cap with a feather set on the side of his handsome head to his shoes the costume suited him admirably, and his valet, standing by him, had just expressed this opinion.
"The mask, M. le Comte, and the domino?"
"No dominos to-night, but I will take it for a cloak. At what time did I order the carriage to be ready?"
"Not for a quarter of an hour yet, M. le Comte."
"Well, you can go. Give me the mask."
The man departed, and Armand, humming an air, the mask dangling from his hand, tried altering by at inch or two the position of the dagger at his hip. Then he looked at the clock, and on what seemed a sudden impulse, threw down the mask upon a sofa and went out of the room.
"He'll be frightened to death if he sees you like that, Sir," said Martha, looking with disapprobation at the costume which had already given her "a turn" in the corridor, where she now stood with its wearer.
"But since he is asleep..." said Armand ingratiatingly.
Mrs. Kemblet shook her head, but opening the door with infinite precautions, allowed her master to enter, and watched from the doorway.