It was late in the afternoon of the fourth day, and the impatience and anxiety of the King’s followers had grown unbearable; but they had this consolation, that the wound was doing well, and that though weak Francis was conscious and ready to talk as much as Leoni would permit about Fontainebleau and the journey home.
But he always avoided making any mention of the jewel, or of his dissatisfaction at having attempted so wild an escapade.
It was, then, late in the afternoon of this fourth day, when after Francis had had a light meal he sank into a profound and restful sleep, thanks to Leoni’s dressing of the wound; and as soon as his attendant had satisfied himself that the sleep was deep, he went down to the shabby little room occupied by Denis and Saint Simon, who sat dolefully comparing their quarters with those they had so lately left.
“He is better, then?” cried Denis, springing up as Leoni entered; and then he looked wonderingly at Leoni, who stood perfectly still, rapt of manner and silent, gazing fixedly at him with that expressionless stony eye, while with the other he seemed to be looking Saint Simon through and through.
“Yes,” said the doctor at last, as if dragging himself back from where his thoughts had wandered away; “better—much.”
“He is ready to start, then?” said Denis eagerly.
“No, nor near it. We are quite lost sight of here in this lonely place. I think we can do so with safety, so we will stay another night. I dare not risk another breakdown on the road.”
“Oh,” ejaculated Denis, “you surely do not advise that we should keep his—the Comte in this squalid place another night?”
“Not from choice, boy, but from necessity. Another such a night as he has just had, and he may be fit to start. To leave to-day would aggravate his wound.”
“Oh,” cried Denis impatiently, “while at any moment Henry’s people may have obtained a clue and surround this place!”