“How, monsieur? You would send us to the Hôtel de Ville, who come to offer our swords to the King? Believe me, they will be more useful than our heads sticking on the spikes of the Porte Royale.”
Cipierre laughed once more. “Let me tell you, you would be safer in the Hôtel de Ville than out of it.”
“With Monsieur Sarlaboux to guard us! My uncle, you are too kind! I little thought that Cipierre would ever serve the Guise.”
The shot told, and the brown cheek of the old soldier became brick red.
“Mordieu! I serve the Guise! Since when? If the King, or even Madame Catherine, would but lift a finger, I—yes I, mordieu!——”
Here Sancerre interrupted him, and, placing his hand on Cipierre’s shoulder, said with his quiet voice:
“Steady, old friend! Even our heads are shaking. Be careful lest they fall! Come, messieurs! Let us to supper. The blood runs cold at my age, and I need something to warm it. And you, too, gentlemen, I doubt not, are famished.”
For some little time the conversation confined itself to the event of the day, but when at last we were alone with the wine, Sancerre said, with a look at Cipierre:
“Messieurs, we are alone now, and these walls are deaf, so we can speak freely. Let me tell you that the air of Orleans is unhealthy at present. Take my advice and go with the dawn.”
“But, monsieur, we came, as I said, to offer our swords to the King.”