Tavannes, we know, had been slow to obey the summons.  Emerging from the crowd, he found that the King, with Retz and Rambouillet, his Marshal des Logis, had retired to the farther end of the Chamber; apparently Charles had forgotten that he had called.  His head a little bent—­he was tall and had a natural stoop—­the King seemed to be listening to a low but continuous murmur of voices which proceeded from the door of his closet.  One voice frequently raised was beyond doubt a woman’s; a foreign accent, smooth and silky, marked another; a third, that from time to time broke in, wilful and impetuous, was the voice of Monsieur, the King’s brother, Catherine de Medicis’ favourite son.  Tavannes, waiting respectfully two paces behind the King, could catch little that was said; but Charles, something more, it seemed, for on a sudden he laughed, a violent, mirthless laugh.  And he clapped Rambouillet on the shoulder.

“There!” he said, with one of his horrible oaths, “’tis settled!  ’Tis settled!  Go, man, and take your orders!  And you, M. de Retz,” he continued, in a tone of savage mockery, “go, my lord, and give them!”

“I, sire?” the Italian Marshal answered, in accents of deprecation.  There were times when the young King would show his impatience of the Italian ring, the Retzs and Biragues, the Strozzis and Gondys, with whom his mother surrounded him.

“Yes, you!” Charles answered.  “You and my lady mother!  And in God’s name answer for it at the day!” he continued vehemently.  “You will have it!  You will not let me rest till you have it!  Then have it, only see to it, it be done thoroughly!  There shall not be one left to cast it in the King’s teeth and cry, ‘Et tu, Carole!’ Swim, swim in blood if you will,” he continued, with growing wildness.  “Oh, ’twill be a merry night!  And it’s true so far, you may kill fleas all day, but burn the coat, and there’s an end.  So burn it, burn it, and—­” He broke off with a start as he discovered Tavannes at his elbow.  “God’s death, man!” he cried roughly, “who sent for you?”

“Your Majesty called me,” Tavannes answered; while, partly urged by the King’s hand, and partly anxious to escape, the others slipped into the closet and left them together.

“I sent for you?  I called your brother, the Marshal!”

“He is within, sire,” Tavannes answered, indicating the closet.  “A moment ago I heard his voice.”

Charles passed his shaking hand across his eyes.  “Is he?” he muttered.  “So he is!  I heard it too.  And—­and a man cannot be in two places at once!” Then, while his haggard gaze, passing by Tavannes, roved round the Chamber, he laid his hand on Count Hannibal’s breast.  “They give me no peace, Madame and the Guises,” he whispered, his face hectic with excitement.  “They will have it.  They say that Coligny—­they say that he beards me in my own palace.  And—­and, mordieu,” with sudden violence, “it’s true.  It’s true enough!  It was but to-day he was for making terms with me!  With me, the King!  Making terms!  So it shall be, by God and Devil, it shall!  But not six or seven!  No, no.  All!  All!  There shall not be one left to say to me, ‘You did it!’”