They had not long to wait, for he suddenly looked round till his eyes rested upon the chamberlain, when he rose, to lay his hand upon his counsellor’s shoulder and walk out with him towards the now deserted corridor, into which the strains of music from the ballroom floated again and again.
“There, Hurst,” he cried, as soon as they were alone, and they paced together slowly towards the end, “what am I to say to you?”
“Sire?”
“If I were not in a good humour I should be disposed to punish you by the loss of my favour for spoiling what ought to have been a joyous day.”
“Sire, I am deeply grieved. You must credit me with anxiety in my duty towards your Majesty.”
“Yes, yes, I do,” cried the King impatiently. “But your suspicions have been absurd, and have made me behave almost rudely to my brother’s ambassador, as noble a gentleman as I ever met. Zounds, man! Is a king’s life always to be made bitter by his people’s dreams of plots? Your suspicions are all folly. He a prince of France! Absurd!”
The chamberlain walked on in silence, and stopped short where the corridor opened out into a well-lit chamber whose walls were hung with portraits.
“Well,” said the King, “what now?”
“Would your Majesty step here into this alcove?” said the chamberlain, after a quick glance around to see that they were alone.
“What now?” cried the King angrily.