“It is not a gendarme, monseigneur, but some attendant of the lady’s or of the count’s.”—­“What kind of a man?”

“Monseigneur, it was impossible to see his face; but I could perfectly see a large Flemish knife in his belt, and his hand, on it.”

“It is amusing; go and waken the fellow.”

“Oh, no, monseigneur.”

“Why not?”

“Why, without counting the knife, I do not wish to amuse myself with making a mortal enemy of mm. de Joyeuse, who stand so well at court.  If you had been king of this country, it might have passed; but now you must be gracious, above all with those who saved you, and Joyeuse did save you.  They will say so, whether you do or not.”—­“You are right, Aurilly, and yet—­and yet—­”

“I understand.  Your highness has not seen a woman’s face for fifteen mortal days.  I do not speak of the kind of animals who live here; they are males and females, but do not deserve to be called men and women.”

“I must see this lady, Aurilly.”

“Well, monseigneur, you may see her; but not through the door.”

“So be it; then I will see her through the window.”

“Ah! that is a good idea, and I will go and look for a ladder for you.”

Aurilly glided into the courtyard, and under a shed found what he wanted.  He maneuvered it among horses and men so skillfully as to wake no one, and placed it in the street against the outer wall.  It was necessary to be a prince, and sovereignly disdainful of vulgar scruples, to dare, in the presence of the sentinel, who walked up and down before the door, to accomplish an action so audaciously insulting to Du Bouchage.  Aurilly felt this, and pointed out the sentinel, who, now observing, called out, “Qui vive!”

Francois shrugged his shoulders and walked up to him.

“My friend,” said he, “this place is the most elevated spot in the village, is it not?”

“Yes, monseigneur,” said the man, recognizing him, “and were it not for those lime trees, we could see over a great part of the country.”

“I thought so; and therefore I have brought a ladder,” said the duke.  “Go up, Aurilly, or rather, let me go up; I will see for myself.”

“Where shall I place it?” said the hypocritical follower.

“Oh, anywhere; against that wall, for instance.”

The sentinel walked off, and the duke mounted the ladder, Aurilly standing at the foot.

The room in which Henri had placed Diana was matted, and had a large oaken bed with serge curtains, a table, and a few chairs.

Diana, whose heart seemed relieved from an enormous weight since she had heard the false news of the duke’s death, had, almost for the first time since her father’s death, eaten something more substantial than bread, and drunk a little wine.  After this she grew sleepy, and Remy had left her, and was sleeping outside her door, not from any suspicion, but because such had been his habit ever since they had left Paris.