"In ten minutes: Blaise is saddling the horses. You are to convoy Mademoiselle de Narbonne."
"Mademoiselle de Narbonne? To Poictiers, Monseigneur?"
"Yes, wait in the courtyard till she is ready. Have you supped?"
"No, Monseigneur."
"Then ride hungry, or eat as you go. Off with you now; ten minutes, remember."
But when, catching him by the arm, I would have importuned him, he motioned me to silence.
"One moment, Mademoiselle, one moment," he said testily, and as he spoke Blaise returned, a pile of sober grey stuff on his arm. This Monsieur de Commines snatched from him. "Now the horses, quickly, but with no noise," and at last the door was shut.
"Monseigneur, what does this mean?"
"It means, Mademoiselle, that the King is dead."
"Dead? Louis—the King—dead? That hypocrite, that tyrant—dead? God be thanked for His justice!"