Count Hannibal’s face was inscrutable. “I think nothing, sire,” he said dryly. “It is for your Majesty and your council to think. It is enough for me that it is the King’s will.”
“But you’ll not flinch?” Charles muttered, with a quick look of suspicion. “But there,” with a monstrous oath, “I know you’ll not! I believe you’d as soon kill a monk—though, thank God,” and he crossed himself devoutly, “there is no question of that—as a man. And sooner than a maiden.”
“Much sooner, sire,” Tavannes answered grimly. “If you have any orders in the monkish direction—no? Then your Majesty must not talk to me longer. M. de Rochefoucauld is beginning to wonder what is keeping your Majesty from your game. And others are marking you, sire.”
“By the Lord!” Charles exclaimed, a ring of wonder mingled with horror in his tone, “if they knew what was in our minds they’d mark us more! Yet, see Nançay there beside the door? He is unmoved. He looks to-day as he looked yesterday. Yet he has charge of the work in the palace—”
For the first time Tavannes allowed a movement of surprise to escape him.
“In the palace?” he muttered. “Is it to be done here, too, sire?”
“Would you let some escape, to return by-and-by and cut our throats?” the King retorted, with a strange spirt of fury; an incapacity to maintain the same attitude of mind for two minutes together was the most fatal weakness of his ill-balanced nature. “No. All! All!” he repeated with vehemence. “Didn’t Noah people the earth with eight? But I’ll not leave eight! My cousins, for they are blood-royal, shall live if they will recant. And my old nurse, whether or no. And Paré, for no one else understands my complexion. And—”
“And Rochefoucauld, doubtless, sire?”
The King, whose eye had sought his favourite companion, withdrew it. He darted a glance at Tavannes.
“Foucauld? Who said so?” he muttered jealously. “Not I! But we shall see. We shall see! And do you see that you spare no one, M. le Comte, without an order. That is your business.”