'Is yonder carriage, which I see drawn by four white horses and guarded by twelve Grey Musketeers, the equipage of the Countess d'Amboise?' I asked.
'Always your Countess,' grumbled the Marechal; 'no, 'tis the Queen's.'
'And why has the Countess six?'
'My bon camarado, have you yet to learn that Anne of Austria is only the wife of the most Christian King, while Clara d'Ische is his mistress? This makes all the difference in the world.'
'Our old Marechal de Logis has paraded in a bad humour to-day,' said Raynold Cheyne, as Gordon moved his horse to the rear of our line.
''Tis his dark day,' said the Chevalier; 'but, Blane, you cannot know what we mean by that anniversary.'
'The day on which he lost his friend and mistress together, by a hasty shot.'
'Thirty years ago, that is to say, in April 1605, he stood in high favour with the beautiful Marguerite of Valois, who was then living—and still lovely—at the old embattled Hotel de Sens; but lo! as madame was not so discreet as in the days of the Huguenots, one night he discovered a rival.'
'Where?' I asked, 'in her chamber?'
'Nay, in the boot of her coach.'