“The Prince will not die,” answered the voice, and this time I saw as well as heard the speaker. He was on my left, in the shadow of the wall, between my horse and the door of the cabaret, and he was the jester of the Place de Martroi.
“How? Why?” exclaimed a dozen voices; but with his odd laugh the jester slipped back, and mingled with the shadow. He seemed, so suddenly did he vanish from my sight, to have melted into air.
We pushed through the crowd, who were asking each other eager questions, as to who had answered the tall man in so strange a manner, and as we got clear of them Marcilly remarked:
“The laugh I heard reminded me much of the jester we met in the Martroi.”
“It was he,” I answered; “I saw him distinctly. He was close to my nag’s head. You heard what he said?”
“That the Prince would not die on the 10th.”
“Yes.”
“Well, what do you think of it?”
“What can I think? If the fool belongs to the Court, he may have heard some gossip, and took the opportunity to repeat what he knew. If, on the other hand, it is one of those vain winds that whistle through the head of folly——”
“Excellencies, we stop here,” said the Swiss; “this is the Comte de Sancerre’s house.”