The person who entered bore a strong family likeness to the Duke, but was neither so tall nor so powerful in person. He was dressed in the crimson robes of a prince of the church of Rome; and his countenance, which had much shrewdness and some dignity, accorded well with his station, Miron had retired quietly while the Duke spoke; a sign had dismissed the messenger from the Duke of Mayenne, and none but Pericard remained in the room. But yet the Cardinal spoke in a whisper to his brother, who merely smiled, replying, "Come, come; we have no time now to jest." And thus saying, he led the way down to a hall, where supper was prepared at the table of the Grand Master for all the most distinguished guests then resident at Blois.
The table was covered, as was then much the custom, with jewelled plate of many kinds, and various fanciful devices. The room was in a blaze of light, and all the guests, but the King and his particular train, had already arrived. They were standing back from the table, and gathered together in the magnificent dresses of that period, formed splendid groups in different parts of the chamber, while sewers and other attendants, hurrying backwards and forwards, brought in the various dishes, and set them in their regular order.
The appearance of the Duke and his brother, the Cardinal de Guise, occasioned an instant movement amongst the guests, and the proudest there bowed lowly to the gallant Prince, whose fortunes hitherto had gone on from height to height. Nobles and generals of the highest distinction eagerly sought a word with him, and bishops and prelates of many a various character crowded forward, but to touch the hand of one who had stood forth so prominently in defence of the church.
In a few minutes the table was covered with the various dishes, and intimation that supper was served was immediately given to the King, who appeared the moment after, while the Duke of Guise advanced to the door to receive him, and with every testimony of lowly respect led him to the raised seat appointed for him. The King was followed by six gentlemen, for whom places had been reserved, and amongst them the eye of Guise rested upon Villequier. That eye flashed for a single moment as it saw him; but the next instant all was calm, and the Duke noticed him especially by an inclination of the head.
As soon as the King had taken his seat, saying, "Sit, my Lord Duke, I pray you; stand upon no further ceremonies," Guise and the rest seated themselves at the table, and the monarch and his princely officer bent forward to say some complimentary nothing to each other, each at the same time unfolding the napkin that lay before them. As they did so, from the napkin of the Duke of Guise fell out upon his plate a folded letter; and Henry, who was all gaiety and condescension at that moment, exclaimed aloud with a light laugh, "Some letter from his lady-love, upon my honour. Read, read, my Lord Duke! Read, read! Carvers, touch not a dish till the Duke has read."
The Duke opened the letter smiling, while the King bent a little towards that side, as if jestingly, to see the contents. All eyes round the table were fixed upon those two; and it was seen that the colour mounted into the cheek of the Duke of Guise, that his brow gathered into a frown, and his lip curled with a scornful smile. As far as the paint on the King's countenance would admit, he appeared to turn pale at the same moment. But Guise, crushing the letter together in his hand, threw it contemptuously under the table, saving aloud, "They dare not!"[[7]]
None but the King around the table knew to what those words alluded: but Henry had seen the words, "Beware, Duke of Guise, your life is in danger every day. There are those round you from morning to night, who are ready to spill your blood."
The Duke seemed to forget the matter in a moment, and by the graces of his demeanour soon caused it to be forgotten also by all those around. Henry resumed his gaiety and tranquillity; wine and feasting did their part; and some short time after the King, with his glass filled with the most exquisite wine of France, exclaimed, "Let us drink to some one, my Lord Duke. To whom shall it be?"
"It is for your Majesty to command," replied the Duke gaily. "Let us drink to our good friends the Huguenots!"
"Willingly, willingly," cried Henry laughing. "To the Huguenots, cousin of Guise: ay, and to our good barricaders, too; let us not forget them."