Why had he suffered himself to be trapped?  Why indeed?  And thrice in passion he paced the room.  Long ago the famous Nostradamus had told him that he would live to be a king, but of the smallest kingdom in the world.  “Every man is a king in his coffin,” he had answered.  “The grave is cold and your kingdom shall be warm,” the wizard had rejoined.  On which the courtiers had laughed, promising him a Moorish island and a black queen.  And he had gibed with the rest, but secretly had taken note of the sovereign counties of France, their rulers and their heirs.  Now he held the thought in horror, foreseeing no county, but the cage under the stifling tiles at Loches, in which Cardinal Balue and many another had worn out their hearts.

He came to that thought not by way of his own peril, but of Mademoiselle’s; which affected him in so novel a fashion that he wondered at his folly.  At last, tired of watching the shadows which the draught set dancing on the wall, he drew his cloak about him and lay down on the straw.  He had kept vigil the previous night, and in a few minutes, with a campaigner’s ease, he was asleep.

Midnight had struck.  About two the light in the lanthorn burned low in the socket, and with a soft sputtering went out.  For an hour after that the room lay still, silent, dark; then slowly the grey dawn, the greyer for the river mist which wrapped the neighbourhood in a clammy shroud, began to creep into the room and discover the vague shapes of things.  Again an hour passed, and the sun was rising above Montreuil, and here and there the river began to shimmer through the fog.  But in the room it was barely daylight when the sleeper awoke, and sat up, his face expectant.  Something had roused him.  He listened.

His ear, and the habit of vigilance which a life of danger instils, had not deceived him.  There were men moving in the passage; men who shuffled their feet impatiently.  Had Biron returned?  Or had aught happened to him, and were these men come to avenge him?  Count Hannibal rose and stole across the boards to the door, and, setting his ear to it, listened.

He listened while a man might count a hundred and fifty, counting slowly.  Then, for the third part of a second, he turned his head, and his eyes travelled the room.  He stooped again and listened more closely, scarcely breathing.  There were voices as well as feet to be heard now; one voice—­he thought it was Peridol’s—­which held on long, now low, now rising into violence.  Others were audible at intervals, but only in a growl or a bitter exclamation, that told of minds made up and hands which would not be restrained.  He caught his own name, Tavannes—­the mask was useless, then!  And once a noisy movement which came to nothing, foiled, he fancied, by Peridol.