“Ah!” exclaimed the duke in astonishment.  “However, that is not the matter now,” he added after a pause.  “Ambroise, I want you to see a friend of yours.”  So saying he drew him to the door of the council-room, and showed him Christophe.

“Ha! true, monseigneur,” cried the surgeon, extending his hand to the young furrier.  “How is your father, my lad?”

“Very well, Maitre Ambroise,” replied Christophe.

“What are you doing at court?” asked the surgeon.  “It is not your business to carry parcels; your father intends you for the law.  Do you want the protection of these two great princes to make you a solicitor?”

“Indeed I do!” said Christophe; “but I am here only in the interests of my father; and if you could intercede for us, please do so,” he added in a piteous tone; “and ask the Grand Master for an order to pay certain sums that are due to my father, for he is at his wit’s end just now for money.”

The cardinal and the duke glanced at each other and seemed satisfied.

“Now leave us,” said the duke to the surgeon, making him a sign.  “And you my friend,” turning to Christophe; “do your errand quickly and return to Paris.  My secretary will give you a pass, for it is not safe, mordieu, to be travelling on the high-roads!”

Neither of the brothers formed the slightest suspicion of the grave importance of Christophe’s errand, convinced, as they now were, that he was really the son of the good Catholic Lecamus, the court furrier, sent to collect payment for their wares.

“Take him close to the door of the queen’s chamber; she will probably ask for him soon,” said the cardinal to the surgeon, motioning to Christophe.

While the son of the furrier was undergoing this brief examination in the council-chamber, the king, leaving the queen in company with her mother-in-law, had passed into his dressing-room, which was entered through another small room next to the chamber.

Standing in the wide recess of an immense window, Catherine looked at the gardens, her mind a prey to painful thoughts.  She saw that in all probability one of the greatest captains of the age would be foisted that very day into the place and power of her son, the king of France, under the formidable title of lieutenant-general of the kingdom.  Before this peril she stood alone, without power of action, without defence.  She might have been likened to a phantom, as she stood there in her mourning garments (which she had not quitted since the death of Henri II.) so motionless was her pallid face in the grasp of her bitter reflections.  Her black eyes floated in that species of indecision for which great statesmen are so often blamed, though it comes from the vast extent of the glance with which they embrace all difficulties,—­setting one against the other, and adding up, as it were, all chances before deciding on a course.  Her ears rang, her blood tingled, and yet she stood there calm