As the cap was doffed, however, and the long feather swept the tapestried floor, Louis forgot to chide this ostentatious defiance of his will, and with a smile motioned his splendid courtier to a seat.

“You come like a bridegroom from the wedding feast, Albert,” he said cheerfully; “and you surely bring me a message of good import, or your garb belies you.  Has De Brantes announced the speedy arrival of my sparrow-hawks?”

“Of one only, Sire; the smaller of the two died under his training.”

“Ah!” exclaimed the King, with great petulance; “it is always so.  Whatever is destined to give me pleasure fails when I am the most eager to possess it.”

“And yet,” interposed De Luynes gaily, “never, in so far as I can judge, did fortune show herself more favourable to your Majesty.”

“What mean you?” asked Louis, roused for an instant from his usual apathy.

“Oh! it is a long tale, and a strange one,” said the favourite.  “You may remember, Sire, the quarrel that arose between the old Baron de Luz and the Chevalier de Guise, and which grew out of the cabal against Concini.  You cannot have forgotten, moreover, that the Baron was killed.  Well, his son Antoine de Luz, impatient for a vengeance which was too tardy according to the principle of his filial chivalry, took, as it seems, the affair into his own hands, and flattered himself that where his father had failed he should come forth victorious.  Poor boy! he has paid dearly for his mistake.  His sword has proved duller than his hopes.  He has encountered the Chevalier in his turn, and in his turn has bit the dust.  Francois de Guise pierced him through and through one day last week near the Porte St. Antoine.”

“Holy Virgin!” exclaimed Louis in an agitated voice; “do you mean that he is dead?”

“Dead, like his father,” was the unmoved reply.

“And her Majesty the Queen-Regent was no sooner informed of the fact than she commanded M. de Bassompierre to arrest the Chevalier.”

“I will not permit it!” cried the young King vehemently.  “I love Francois de Guise; he is one of my firmest friends; he shall not be imprisoned.”

“Calm yourself, Sire,” said De Luynes with a significant smile; “Madame la Regente was soon appeased, and so little does she resent the crime of M. de Guise that she has this morning condescended to cause inquiries to be made after his health.”

“Right, right,” murmured Louis; “and yet it is a bad precedent, and a dangerous example to the lesser nobles.  I hate this spilling of blood.  The Princes are too bold.  Upon what will they next venture?”

“Nay, it requires no sphynx to solve that problem, my gracious master,” said the favourite, toying with his plumed cap; “they will endeavour to effect the exile of Concini and his dark-browed wife:  your good subjects have no love for foreigners, and believe that you, their sovereign, would find no want of faithful and devoted servitors among themselves.  Then Jeannin, Sire, and Sillery are obnoxious to them; and they trust, with your good help, to be ere long freed from all these incubi.”