‘No, but they were killed in fair fight,’ I replied, ‘That makes a difference.’
‘To you,’ he said drily. ‘But you are not the King of France, you see. Should you ever come across him,’ he continued, flicking his horse’s ears, a faint smile on his lips, ‘I will give you a hint. Talk to him of the battles at Jarnac and Moncontour, and praise your Conde’s father! As Conde lost the fight and, he won it, the compliment comes home to him. The more hopelessly a man has lost his powers, my friend, the more fondly he regards them, and the more highly he prizes the victories he call no longer gain.’
‘Ugh!’ I muttered.
‘Of the two parties at Court,’ Rosny continued, calmly overlooking my ill-humour, ‘trust D’Aumont and Biron and the French clique. They are true to France at any rate. But whomsoever you see consort with the two Retzs—the King of Spain’s jackals as men name them—avoid him for a Spaniard and a traitor.’
‘But the Retzs are Italians,’ I objected peevishly.
‘The same thing,’ he answered curtly. ‘They cry, “Vive le Roi!” but privately they are for the League, or for Spain, or for whatever may most hurt us; who are better Frenchmen than themselves, and whose leader will some day, if God spare his life, be King of France.’
‘Well, the less I have to do with the one or the other of them, save at the sword’s point, the better I shall be pleased,’ I rejoined.
On that he looked at me with a queer smile; as was his way when he had more in his mind than appeared. And this, and something special in the tone of his conversation, as well, perhaps, as my own doubts about my future and his intentions regarding me, gave me an uneasy feeling; which lasted through the day, and left me only when more immediate peril presently rose to threaten us.
It happened in this way. We had reached the outskirts of Blois, and were just approaching the gate, hoping to pass through it without attracting attention, when two travellers rode slowly out of a lane, the mouth of which we were passing. They eyed us closely as they reined in to let us go by; and M. de Rosny, who was riding with his horse’s head at my stirrup, whispered me to press on. Before I could comply, however, the strangers cantered by us, and turning in the saddle when abreast of us looked us in the face. A moment later one of them cried loudly, ‘It is he!’ and both pulled their horses across the road, and waited for us to come up.
Aware that if M. de Rosny were discovered he would be happy if he escaped with imprisonment, the king being too jealous of his Catholic reputation to venture to protect a Huguenot, however illustrious, I saw that the situation was desperate; for, though we were five to two, the neighbourhood of the city—the gate being scarcely a bow-shot off—rendered flight or resistance equally hopeless. I could think of nothing for it save to put a bold face on the matter, and, M. de Rosny doing the same, we advanced in the most innocent way possible.