“Your servant, Monsieur de—?”
“Garnache,” came the other’s crisp, metallic voice, and the name had a sound as of an oath on his lips. “Martin Marie Rigobert de Garnache. I come to you on an errand of Her Majesty’s, as this my warrant will apprise you.” And he proffered the paper he held, which Tressan accepted from his hand.
A change was visible in the wily Seneschal’s fat countenance. Its round expanse had expressed interrogation until now; but at the Parisian’s announcement that he was an emissary of the Queen’s, Tressan insinuated into it just that look of surprise and of increased deference which would have been natural had he not already been forewarned of Monsieur de Garnache’s mission and identity.
He placed a chair at his visitor’s disposal, himself resuming his seat at his writing-table, and unfolding the paper Garnache had given him. The newcomer seated himself, hitched his sword-belt round so that he could lean both hands upon the hilt, and sat, stiff and immovable, awaiting the Lord Seneschal’s pleasure. From his desk across the room the secretary, idly chewing the feathered end of his goose-quill, took silent stock of the man from Paris, and wondered.
Tressan folded the paper carefully, and returned it to its owner. It was no more than a formal credential, setting forth that Garnache was travelling into Dauphiny on a State affair, and commanding Monsieur de Tressan to give him every assistance he might require in the performance of his errand.
“Parfaitement,” purred the Lord Seneschal. “And now, monsieur, if you will communicate to me the nature of your affair, you shall find me entirely at your service.”
“It goes without saying that you are acquainted with the Chateau de Condillac?” began Garnache, plunging straight into business.
“Perfectly.” The Seneschal leaned back, and was concerned to feel his pulses throbbing a shade too quickly. But he controlled his features, and maintained a placid, bland expression.
“You are perhaps acquainted with its inhabitants?”
“Yes.”