At this moment Bertrand entered, holding a letter in his hand.
“What is this?” said the old lord, eagerly.
“A despatch brought by a courier sent to you by the king,” replied Bertrand.
“The king, and not the queen-mother!” exclaimed the duke. “What is happening? Have the Huguenots taken arms again? Tete-Dieu!” cried the old man, rising to his feet and casting a flaming glance at his three companions, “I’ll arm my soldiers once more, and, with Maximilien at my side, Normandy shall—”
“Sit down, my good seigneur,” said Beauvouloir, uneasy at seeing the duke give way to an excitement that was dangerous to a convalescent.
“Read it, Maitre Corbineau,” said the old man, holding out the missive to his confessor.
These four personages formed a tableau full of instruction upon human life. The man-at-arms, the priest, and the physician, all three standing before their master, who was seated in his arm-chair, were casting pallid glances about them, each presenting one of those ideas which end by possessing the whole man on the verge of the tomb. Strongly illumined by a last ray of the setting sun, these silent men composed a picture of aged melancholy fertile in contrasts. The sombre and solemn chamber, where nothing had been changed in twenty-five years, made a frame for this poetic canvas, full of extinguished passions, saddened by death, tinctured by religion.
“The Marechal d’Ancre has been killed on the Pont du Louvre by order of the king, and—O God!”
“Go on!” cried the duke.
“Monsieur le Duc de Nivron—”