"No." The voice was firmer as the hard will regained the upper hand, but it was harsh, dry, curt. "Perhaps I'll sleep—later. Please God I'll sleep later. Send them in."
But in the ante-room Leslie paused a moment.
"Take off those riding gloves," he said sharply. "You must know little of kings' courts. Leave them on the table. You can pick them up as you go out."
"I know my duty," answered Molembrais, "and that is enough for me." To speak sharply steadied his nerve. But at the door he stood aside and motioned to La Mothe. "Do you go in first." Again it was not that his courage failed him, but La Mothe would be so much covert, La Mothe would draw the King's attention. It would ruin everything if, while he was on the very threshold, the King should cry out, Where is Beaufoy?
But Louis never gave him a glance. As the light fell upon La Mothe's face he drew a shivering sigh and clenched his teeth with a snap. Life or death had passed the door—which was it?
"Come nearer," he said, beckoning. "Nearer yet. You, Beaufoy, stay there by the door. The Dauphin?—Charles?"
"Well, Sire."
"Well!" The beckoning hand dropped, then he leaned forward, covering his face. "Oh, God—God—God—God be thanked!" he sobbed, his shoulders shaking in convulsions as he fought for breath. "God be thanked!" La Mothe heard him whisper a second time, and in the silence Molembrais crept forward and aside, edging by the wall where the shadows were thickest. The lamp was his danger. He must quench the lamp and strike in the dark. Forward and aside he stole towards the table.
Suddenly Louis reared himself upright, again shaking a hand before him, but this time in a threat.
"I cancelled my orders: where—where——"