As he spoke, Comines and D'Hymbercourt entered the room, and, after having made their reverence to the two Princes, assumed in silence the seats which were left vacant for them.
"What ho! sirs," exclaimed the Duke, addressing them, "your sport has been either very good or very bad, to lead you so far and so late. Sir Philip des Comines, you are dejected – hath D'Hymbercourt won so heavy a wager on you? – You are a philosopher, and should not grieve at bad fortune. – By Saint George! D'Hymbercourt looks as sad as thou dost. – How now, sirs? Have you found no game? or have you lost your falcons? or has a witch crossed your way? or has the Wild Huntsman[47] met you in the forest? By my honour, you seem as if you were come to a funeral, not a festival."
While the Duke spoke, the eyes of the company were all directed towards D'Hymbercourt and Des Comines; and the embarrassment and dejection of their countenances, neither being of that class of persons to whom such expression of anxious melancholy was natural, became so remarkable, that the mirth and laughter of the company, which the rapid circulation of goblets of excellent wine had raised to a considerable height, was gradually hushed; and, without being able to assign any reason for such a change in their spirits, men spoke in whispers to each other, as on the eve of expecting some strange and important tidings.
"What means this silence, Messires?" said the Duke, elevating his voice, which was naturally harsh. "If you bring these strange looks, and this stranger silence, into festivity, we shall wish you had abode in the marshes seeking for herons, or rather for woodcocks and howlets."
"My gracious lord," said Des Comines, "as we were about to return hither from the forest, we met the Count of Crèvecoeur."
"How!" said the Duke; "already returned from Brabant? – but he found all well there, doubtless?" –
"The Count himself will presently give your Grace an account of his news," said D'Hymbercourt, "which we have heard but imperfectly."
"Body of me, where is the Count?" said the Duke.
"He changes his dress, to wait upon your Highness," answered D'Hymbercourt.
"His dress? Saint-bleu!" exclaimed the impatient Prince, "what care I for his dress? I think you have conspired with him to drive me mad!"