The chamberlain made no reply, but still stepped forward to the far side of the chamber, where he took a candle from one of the sconces on the wall to hold it up above his head in front of a large full-length canvas, the work of some great master, whose brush had so vividly delineated the features of his subject that the portrait seemed to gaze fixedly down at the King, while a faint smile just flickered upon its lips.
“Does your Majesty know those features?” said the chamberlain. “Who is that?”
“What!” cried the King, in startled tones. “Philippe de Valois.”
“Yes, Sire; and my suspicion grows stronger every hour.”
“Hah!” cried the King. “But no: impossible! And yet the same eyes; that same careless, half mocking smile. Hurst, there is something in this. The features are similar.”
“Yes, Sire. It is a strong family resemblance.”
“But who could it be, and why should he come here? To play the spy; for it could mean nothing else. What sinister plots and plans can there be behind all this? But you were thinking. You know something more?”
“I know no more than your Majesty. I only suspect.”
“Suspect! Suspicion! I hate the very sounds of the words, and all the black clouds that hang around them. A family resemblance? Then who could this man be?”
The chamberlain was silent.