“He is at Fontainebleau?” he asked.
“Not at present, Sire,” said Francis drily, and with a glance at Leoni.
“Ah!” and Henry seemed to relapse into thought.
“I would that he were here, Sire, in order that he might see how well you treat his envoys.”
But Henry waved the compliment aside.
“Tell me about France,” he said; “tell me about France.” And he looked fixedly at the messenger from the kingdom of the fleur-de-lys, while Leoni would have given anything to draw nearer, to gather up if it were only scraps of the conversation that ensued; but he was bound to imitate the action of those around and draw back, full of anxiety about his pupil, but fain to content himself with looking around at the gay throng, before sinking into a chair where he could think about his mission, his searching eyes always busy looking about, especially at the jewels that were flashing on every side, as he hungrily sought for some thread which might form a clue to lead him ultimately to the object of his quest.
Meanwhile Denis and Saint Simon, looking as courtly as the most brightly dressed among whom they stood, were invited by one of the dignified functionaries to join in the dance, but declined on the score of fatigue; and the former had sauntered away from the throng, to stand near a curtained window a moment, when he heard his name spoken, and a hand was laid on his arm. He turned sharply, to find himself face to face with Carrbroke.
“Found you,” he said. “Well, it did not require my services to show you the Court. What do you think of it? Better than Fontainebleau, is it not?”
It was not necessary for Denis to reply, because his companion went on quickly to speak of other things.
“We shall be able to see a great deal of each other, I hope,” he said.