Tignonville held too good an opinion of himself to suspect the other of badinage; and thus encouraged, he pushed his way to the front of the circle.  During his absence with his betrothed, the crowd in the Chamber had grown thin, the candles had burned an inch shorter in the sconces.  But though many who had been there had left, the more select remained, and the King’s return to his seat had given the company a fillip.  An air of feverish gaiety, common in the unhealthy life of the Court, prevailed.  At a table abreast of the King, Montpensier and Marshal Cosse were dicing and disputing, with now a yell of glee, and now an oath, that betrayed which way fortune inclined.  At the back of the King’s chair, Chicot, his gentleman-jester, hung over Charles’s shoulder, now scanning his cards, and now making hideous faces that threw the on-lookers into fits of laughter.  Farther up the Chamber, at the end of the alcove, Marshal Tavannes—­our Hannibal’s brother—­occupied a low stool, which was set opposite the open door of the closet.  Through this doorway a slender foot, silk-clad, shot now and again into sight; it came, it vanished, it came again, the gallant Marshal striving at each appearance to rob it of its slipper, a dainty jewelled thing of crimson velvet.  He failed thrice, a peal of laughter greeting each failure.  At the fourth essay, he upset his stool and fell to the floor, but held the slipper.  And not the slipper only, but the foot.  Amid a flutter of silken skirts and dainty laces—­while the hidden beauty shrilly protested—­he dragged first the ankle, and then a shapely leg into sight.  The circle applauded; the lady, feeling herself still drawn on, screamed loudly and more loudly.  All save the King and his opponent turned to look.  And then the sport came to a sudden end.  A sinewy hand appeared, interposed, released; for an instant the dark, handsome face of Guise looked through the doorway.  It was gone as soon as seen; it was there a second only.  But more than one recognised it, and wondered.  For was not the young Duke in evil odour with the King by reason of the attack on the Admiral?  And had he not been chased from Paris only that morning and forbidden to return?

They were still wondering, still gazing, when abruptly—­as he did all things—­Charles thrust back his chair.

“Foucauld, you owe me ten pieces!” he cried with glee, and he slapped the table.  “Pay, my friend; pay!”

“To-morrow, little master; to-morrow!” Rochefoucauld answered in the same tone.  And he rose to his feet.

“To-morrow!” Charles repeated.  “To-morrow?” And on the word his jaw fell.  He looked wildly round.  His face was ghastly.

“Well, sire, and why not?” Rochefoucauld answered in astonishment.  And in his turn he looked round, wondering; and a chill fell on him.  “Why not?” he repeated.

For a moment no one answered him:  the silence in the Chamber was intense.  Where he looked, wherever he looked, he met solemn, wondering eyes, such eyes as gaze on men in their coffins.