Before he reached it he met his colonel, M. de Biron, who caught hold of his arm rather eagerly.
“A messenger from Paris,” whispered the Duke. “Came with letters to M. Belleisle—he has sent for M. de Broglie.”
The second in command was not loved by the Maréchal; that they should be in consultation seemed to both the young officers as if the news from France must be serious.
“When shall we know?” asked M. de Vauvenargues.
“Not before the morning,” sighed the colonel.
They entered the guardroom together: the chamber was full of the perfume of Virginian tobacco and pleasantly warm. Georges d’Espagnac was playing cards at a curious old table inlaid with ivory; his fair young face was flushed with warmth and animation and showed dazzling through the smoke wreaths.
CHAPTER IV
CARDINAL FLEURY’S BLUNDER
Maréchal de Belleisle lay full length on a couch of saffron-coloured satin with his head raised on a pile of silk cushions.
His room was one of the royal apartments in the Hradcany, and was most splendidly furnished with his own luxurious belongings: the floor was covered with a silk carpet; the walls hung with bright tapestry; the chairs were gilt and ash-wood; the many small tables held all manner of rich articles of gold, tortoiseshell, porcelain, and enamel, books richly bound, and caskets of sweets and preserved fruits. The light came entirely from crystal lamps suspended from gilt chains and supported by the ivory figures of flying cupids. A great clear fire burnt on the hearth, and near it was an ormolu writing-desk, on which were a few papers and a number of extravagant articles of gold and precious stones.
The Maréchal was a man of middle life with an appearance denoting great pride and energy. He wore a white and scarlet brocade dressing-gown over black breeches and waistcoat of the extreme of fashion; his feet and legs were bandaged to the knee; the upper part of his person glittered with jewels—in the seals at his watch-chain, in the heavy lace at his throat, and on his strong, smooth fingers. His face was unnaturally pale and expressed a cold despair; his full brown eyes stared in absorbed trouble across the beautiful little room; and in his right hand he tightly grasped a letter from which swung the seals of France. He moved his head with a quick breath as his valet open the door and announced—