Tavannes dismissed the matter with a shrug, and, drawing his cloak about him, set a stool against the wall and sat down.  The men who brought in the wine and the bundle of straw were inquisitive, and would have loitered, scanning him stealthily; but Peridol hurried them away.  The lieutenant himself stayed only to cast a glance round the room, and to mutter that he would return when his lord returned; then, with a “Good night” which said more for his manners than his good will, he followed them out.  A moment later the grating of the key in the lock and the sound of the bolts as they sped home told Tavannes that he was a prisoner.

CHAPTER XIV.  TOO SHORT A SPOON.

Count Hannibal remained seated, his chin sunk on his breast, until his ear assured him that the three men had descended the stairs to the floor below.  Then he rose, and, taking the lanthorn from the table, on which Peridol had placed it, he went softly to the door, which, like the window, stood in a recess—­in this case the prolongation of the passage.  A brief scrutiny satisfied him that escape that way was impossible, and he turned, after a cursory glance at the floor and ceiling, to the dark, windy aperture which yawned at the end of the apartment.  Placing the lanthorn on the table, and covering it with his cloak, he mounted the window recess, and, stepping to the unguarded edge, looked out.

He knew, rather than saw, that Peridol had told the truth.  The smell of the aguish flats which fringed that part of Paris rose strong in his nostrils.  He guessed that the sluggish arm of the Seine which divided the Arsenal from the Ile des Louviers crawled below; but the night was dark, and it was impossible to discern land from water.  He fancied that he could trace the outline of the island—­an uninhabited place, given up to wood piles; but the lights of the college quarter beyond it, which rose feebly twinkling to the crown of St. Genevieve, confused his sight and rendered the nearer gloom more opaque.  From that direction and from the Cite to his right came sounds which told of a city still heaving in its blood-stained sleep, and even in its dreams planning further excesses.  Now a distant shot, and now a faint murmur on one of the bridges, or a far-off cry, raucous, sudden, curdled the blood.  But even of what was passing under cover of the darkness, he could learn little; and after standing awhile with a hand on either side of the window he found the night air chill.  He stepped back, and, descending to the floor, uncovered the lanthorn and set it on the table.  His thoughts travelled back to the preparations he had made the night before with a view to securing Mademoiselle’s person, and he considered, with a grim smile, how little he had foreseen that within twenty-four hours he would himself be a prisoner.  Presently, finding his mask oppressive, he removed it, and, laying it on the table before him, sat scowling at the light.