“Again!” said Cinq Mars, becoming more attentive; “he only passed once that I saw.”
“And ought he to have been there once, if that were all?” asked Fontrailles. “But let me tell you, Cinq Mars, he was there last night for more than an hour. Oh, Cinq Mars! Cinq Mars! is this a time, when our lives, our fortunes, and our country’s weal are at stake, to sit there dozing over a romance, and see our bitterest enemy have access to the King’s ear, but too easy to be abused? Depend on it, something more will come of this.”
“But why did you not let me know,” demanded the Master of the Horse, “that he had seen the King last night?”
“I learned it but this moment,” replied Fontrailles. “But here comes a Page from the King’s apartments. A message to you, Cinq Mars, on my life.”
The Page approached. “I am commanded by the King’s Majesty to acquaint you, Monseigneur,” said he, addressing the Grand Ecuyer, “that he feels himself too unwell to enjoy the pleasures of the chase to-day. But he desires that his indisposition may not prevent you, and the other gentlemen invited, from following your sport.”—And having delivered this message, the attendant withdrew without waiting for any reply.
“Well, now you see, Fontrailles,” exclaimed Cinq Mars, “there is nothing wrong here. Nothing can be more kind and considerate than, when ill himself, to wish us to follow the sport without him.”
An expression of heavy, deep-seated thought sat upon the brow of the clear-sighted, suspicious Fontrailles. He took two or three steps up and down the apartment, and then, turning to Cinq Mars with a countenance in which painful anxiety and bitter irony were strangely mingled, he considered his companion with an attentive glance, which ran rapidly over his tall elegant figure. “Cinq Mars,” said he, “you are more than six feet high, and could spare a few inches of your height upon an occasion—even were they to make you shorter by the head, you would still be a tall man. As for me, I am short already, and cannot afford to be cut down. A word to the wise—I go to shelter myself from pruning-knives. Do as you please. We shall meet in this world or the next. Adieu!” And turning on his heel, he quitted the saloon.
“The man is mad!” said Cinq Mars aloud as Fontrailles left him—“irretrievably cracked!” And jumping up from the window-seat, he descended to the court-yard, called the huntsmen together, mounted his horse, and led the chase as merrily as if nothing had happened but the ordinary trifles of a day.
Had he known all, very different would have been his feelings. The visit of Chavigni to the King was one on which the fate of France depended; and the wily Statesman had entered the apartments of the Monarch, prepared equally to guard every word he uttered himself, and to watch every turn of Louis’s irritable and unsteady mind.
The King was leaning on a table in his Cabinet, dressed for the hunting expedition we have mentioned, and more than an usual degree of peevishness was expressed in his countenance. “Well, Sir,” exclaimed Louis as Chavigni entered, “what other bad news have you the pleasure of bringing me? What other friends have turned traitors? What other power is about to invade my dominions? By the Holy Trinity! I never see your face but it makes me melancholy.”