“That’s a pity,” rejoined the tyrant regretfully, “for if we only knew that, we should have a clew that might lead to our discovering the truth about this most suspicious affair.  It is only too evident that some one is trying to put you out of the way, quibuscumque viis, as the pedant would say.  Although we unfortunately have no proof of it, I am very much inclined to think that this same carriage belongs to his lordship, the Duke of Vallombreuse, who wished to indulge himself in the pleasure of driving over the body of his enemy in his chariot, in true classical and imperial style.”

“What extraordinary idea have you got into your head now, Sir Herode?” said de Sigognac, rather indignantly.  “Come, that would be too infamous and villainous a proceeding for any gentleman to be guilty of, and you must remember that after all the Duke of Vallombreuse is one, and that he belongs to a very high and noble family.  Besides, did not we leave him in Poitiers, laid up with his wound?  How then could he possibly be in Paris, when we have only just arrived here ourselves?”

“But didn’t we stop several days at Tours? and again at Orleans?  And even if his wound were not entirely healed he could easily travel in his luxurious carriage, by easy stages, from Poitiers to Paris.  His hurt was not of a dangerous character, you know, and he is young and vigorous.  You must be on your guard, my dear captain, unceasingly; never relax your vigilance for one moment, for I tell you there are those about who seek your life.  You once out of the way, Isabelle would, be in the duke’s power—­for what could we, poor players, do against such a great and powerful nobleman?  Even if Vallombreuse himself be not in Paris—­though I am almost positive that he is—­his emissaries are, as you know, and but for your own courage and watchfulness you would have been assassinated in your bed by them last night.”

This de Sigognac could not dispute, and he only nodded in token of assent, as he grasped the hilt of his sword, so as to be ready to draw it at the slightest cause for suspicion or alarm.  Meantime they had walked on as far as the Porte de la Conference, and now saw ahead of them a great cloud of dust, and through it the glitter of bayonets.  They stepped aside to let the cavalcade pass, and saw that the soldiers preceded the carriage of the king, who was returning from Saint Germain to the Louvre.  The curtains of the royal vehicle were raised, and the glasses let down, so that the people could distinctly see their sovereign, Louis XIII, who, pale as a ghost and dressed all in black, sat as motionless as an effigy in wax.  Long, dark brown hair fell about his mournful, ghastly countenance, upon which was depicted the same terrible ennui that drove Philip II of Spain, to seclude himself so much, during the later years of his life, in the silence and solitude of the dreary Escorial.  His eyes were fixed on vacancy, and seemed utterly lifeless—­no desire, no thought, no will