“Umph!”

“However,” Count Hannibal continued, with an airy gesture, “that is my affair.  If you, M. de Montsoreau, feel inclined, in spite of the absence of my letters, to carry yours into effect, by all means do so—­after midnight of to-day.”

M. de Montsoreau breathed hard.  “And why,” he asked, half sulkily and half ponderously, “after midnight only, M. le Comte?”

“Merely that I may be clear of all suspicion of having lot or part in the matter,” Count Hannibal answered pleasantly.  “After midnight of to-night by all means do as you please.  Until midnight, by your leave, we will be quiet.”

The Lieutenant-Governor moved doubtfully in his chair, the fear—­which Tavannes had shrewdly instilled into his mind—­that he might be disowned if he carried out his instructions, struggling with his avarice and his self-importance.  He was rather crafty than bold; and such things had been, he knew.  Little by little, and while he sat gloomily debating, the notion of dealing with one or two and holding the body of the Huguenots to ransom—­a notion which, in spite of everything, was to bear good fruit for Angers—­began to form in his mind.  The plan suited him:  it left him free to face either way, and it would fill his pockets more genteelly than would open robbery.  On the other hand, he would offend his brother and the fanatical party, with whom he commonly acted.  They were looking to see him assert himself.  They were looking to hear him declare himself.  And—­

Harshly Count Hannibal’s voice broke in on his thoughts; harshly, a something sinister in its tone.

“Where is your brother?” he said.  And it was evident that he had not noted his absence until then.  “My lord’s Vicar of all people should be here!” he continued, leaning forward and looking round the table.  His brow was stormy.

Lescot squirmed under his eye; Thuriot turned pale and trembled.  It was one of the canons of St.-Maurice, who at length took on himself to answer.

“His lordship requested, M. le Comte,” he ventured, “that you would excuse him.  His duties—­”

“Is he ill?”

“He—­”

“Is he ill, sirrah?” Tavannes roared.  And while all bowed before the lightning of his eye, no man at the table knew what had roused the sudden tempest.  But Bigot knew, who stood by the door, and whose ear, keen as his master’s, had caught the distant report of a musket shot.  “If he be not ill,” Tavannes continued, rising and looking round the table in search of signs of guilt, “and there be foul play here, and he the player, the Bishop’s own hand shall not save him!  By Heaven it shall not!  Nor yours!” he continued, looking fiercely at Montsoreau.  “Nor your master’s!”

The Lieutenant-Governor sprang to his feet.  “M. le Comte,” he stammered, “I do not understand this language!  Nor this heat, which may be real or not!  All I say is, if there be foul play here—­”