“Ay, lies not far from the truth.”

“My lord!”

“Pish, man, Lescot has said it, and will act on it.  And Thuriot, who prints for the University!  Would you ’scape them?  You would?  Then listen to me.  I want but two things.  First, how many men has Montsoreau’s fellow in the Castle?  Few, I know, for he is a niggard, and if he spends, he spends the Duke’s pay.”

“Twelve.  But five can hold it.”

“Ay, but twelve dare not leave it!  Let them stew in their own broth!  And now for the other matter.  See, man, that before daybreak three gibbets, with a ladder and two ropes apiece, are set up in the square.  And let one be before this door.  You understand?  Then let it be done!  The rest,” he added with a ferocious smile, “you may leave to me.”

The magistrate nodded rather feebly.  “Doubtless,” he said, his eye wandering here and there, “there are rogues in Angers.  And for rogues the gibbet!  But saving your presence, my lord, it is a question whether—­”

But M. de Tavannes’ patience was exhausted.  “Will you do it?” he roared.  “That is the question.  And the only question.”

The Provost jumped, he was so startled.  “Certainly, my lord, certainly!” he muttered humbly.  “Certainly, I will!” And bowing frequently, but saying no more, he backed himself out of the room.

Count Hannibal laughed grimly after his fashion, and doubtless thought that he had seen the last of the magistrate for that night.  Great was his wrath, therefore, when, less than a minute later—­and before Bigot had carved for him—­the door opened, and the Provost appeared again.  He slid in, and without giving the courage he had gained on the stairs time to cool, plunged into his trouble.

“It stands this way, M. le Comte,” he bleated.  “If I put up the gibbets and a man is hanged, and you have letters from the King, ’tis a rogue the less, and no harm done.  But if you have no letters from His Majesty, then it is on my shoulders they will put it, and ’twill be odd if they do not find a way to hang me to right him.”

Count Hannibal smiled grimly.  “And your sister’s son?” he sneered.  “And your girl who is white-faced for his sake, and may burn on the same bonfire with him?  And—­”

“Mercy!  Mercy!” the wretched Provost cried.  And he wrung his hands.  “Lescot and Thuriot—­”

“Perhaps we may hang Lescot and Thuriot—­”

“But I see no way out,” the Provost babbled.  “No way!  No way!”

“I am going to show you one,” Tavannes retorted.  “If the gibbets are not in place by sunrise, I shall hang you from this window.  That is one way out; and you’ll be wise to take the other!  For the rest and for your comfort, if I have no letters, it is not always to paper that the King commits his inmost heart.”

The magistrate bowed.  He quaked, he doubted, but he had no choice.

“My lord,” he said, “I put myself in your hands.  It shall be done, certainly it shall be done.  But, but—­” and shaking his head in foreboding, he turned to the door.  At the last moment, when he was within a pace of it, the Countess rose impulsively to her feet.  She called to him.