“Your lordship knows that he is His Grace’s lieutenant-governor in Saumur.”

“I know that, man.  But is he here?”

“He was at Saumur yesterday, and ’twas rumoured three days back that he was coming here to extirpate the Huguenots.  Then word came of your lordship and of His Majesty’s letters, and ’twas thought that M. de Montsoreau would not come, his authority being superseded.”

“I see.  And now your rabble think that they would prefer M. Montsoreau.  That is it, is it?”

The magistrate shrugged his shoulders and opened his hands.

“Pigs!” he said.  And having spat on the floor, he looked apologetically at the lady.  “True pigs!”

“What connections has he here?” Tavannes asked.

“He is a brother of my lord the Bishop’s vicar, who arrived yesterday.”

“With a rout of shaven heads who have been preaching and stirring up the town!” Count Hannibal cried, his face growing red.  “Speak, man; is it so?  But I’ll be sworn it is!”

“There has been preaching,” the Provost answered reluctantly.

“Montsoreau may count his brother, then, for one.  He is a fool, but with a knave behind him, and a knave who has no cause to love us!  And the Castle?  ’Tis held by one of M. de Montsoreau’s creatures, I take it?”

“Yes, my lord.”

“With what force?”

The magistrate shrugged his shoulders, and looked doubtfully at Badelon, who was keeping the door.  Tavannes followed the glance with his usual impatience.  “Mon Dieu, you need not look at him!” he cried.  “He has sacked St. Peter’s and singed the Pope’s beard with a holy candle!  He has been served on the knee by Cardinals; and is Turk or Jew, or monk or Huguenot as I please.  And Madame”—­for the Provost’s astonished eyes, after resting awhile on the old soldier’s iron visage, had passed to her—­“is Huguenot, so you need have no fear of her!  There, speak, man,” with impatience, “and cease to think of your own skin!”

The Provost drew a deep breath, and fixed his small eyes on Count Hannibal.

“If I knew, my lord, what you—­why, my own sister’s son”—­he paused, his face began to work, his voice shook—­“is a Huguenot!  Ay, my lord, a Huguenot!  And they know it!” he continued, a flush of rage augmenting the emotion which his countenance betrayed.  “Ay, they know it!  And they push me on at the Council, and grin behind my back; Lescot, who was Provost two years back, and would match his son with my daughter; and Thuriot, who prints for the University!  They nudge one another, and egg me on, till half the city thinks it is I who would kill the Huguenots!  I!” Again his voice broke.  “And my own sister’s son a Huguenot!  And my girl at home white-faced for—­for his sake.”

Tavannes scanned the man shrewdly.  “Perhaps she is of the same way of thinking?” he said.

The Provost started, and lost one half of his colour.  “God forbid!” he cried, “saving Madame’s presence!  Who says so, my lord, lies!”