“It is he, Condé,” she said. “Enfin!” and she kicked the dead face with her dainty shoe.
And while I gazed at her, we reached the landing, where all bowed with reverence to the Widow of France, as Catherine was called.
As we came up there was a slight murmur of surprise and curiosity, which even the presence of the Queen-Mother was unable to totally suppress, and there were inquiring looks and glances interchanged, for it takes but a short time to forget in a court, and we, who had been but last year so well known, were almost as strangers now.
I could not forbear a glance at the Limeuil, which she returned with interest, coquette to her finger-tips; and then, dropping her large eyes, she whispered something to a girl beside her, with a little laugh, as musical as the chime of a bell.
We were, however, not altogether unknown. Some one—I could not see whom—did recognize us, and I distinctly caught the words:
“What madness! To come back now!”
“Ay! Two more flies in the cobweb.”
I turned to the voices. The first speaker I could not make out, but the second I was certain of. It was the jester of the Martroi. He was leaning against the wall, swinging his bauble, and surrounded by a group of three or four people, listening, no doubt, to his quips and jests.
All this occurred very rapidly, and then we passed the landing, passed the folding-doors, and entered the ante-chamber beyond. Some of those who were on the landing followed us, the jester among the number; but here we were all stopped by a chamberlain, and Catherine, attended but by Sancerre and Cipierre, entered the private apartments of the King.
Marcilly and I stood alone, a little apart from the rest, who were grouped in knots, conversing in low, subdued tones. Bentivoglio had approached the jester and some others who were gathered round Mademoiselle de Limeuil, and Richelieu, after a quick word or so with the guard at the King’s door, turned as if to join them, but, changing his mind, came toward us and, bowing, said: