things.  At eight o’clock in winter, and ten in summer, they went to bed; but always leaving fifteen on guard.  As, however, it was but half-past five when St. Maline entered, he found every one about, and, as we said, gastronomically inclined.  But with one word he put an end to all this:  “To horse, gentlemen,” said he; and leaving them without another word, went to explain his orders to mm. de Biron and Chalabre.  Some, while buckling on their belts and grasping their cuirasses, ate great mouthfuls, washed down by a draught of wine; and others, whose supper was less advanced, armed themselves with resignation.  They called over the names, and only forty-four, including St. Maline, answered.

“M.  Ernanton de Carmainges is missing,” said De Chalabre, whose turn it was to exercise these functions.  A profound joy filled the heart of St. Maline, and a smile played on his lips, a rare thing with this somber and envious man.

The forty-four therefore set off on their different routes.

CHAPTER XL.

Bel-Esbat.

It is needless to say that Ernanton, whom St. Maline thought ruined, was, on the contrary, pursuing the course of his unexpected and ascending fortunes.  He had, of course, gone first to the Hotel Guise.  There, after having knocked at the great door and had it opened, he was only laughed at when he asked for an interview with the duchess.  Then, as he insisted, they told him that he ought to know that her highness lived at Soissons and not at Paris.  Ernanton was prepared for this reception, so it did not discourage him.

“I am grieved at her highness’s absence,” said he, “for I had a communication of great importance to deliver to her from the Duc de Mayenne.”

“From the Duc de Mayenne!  Who charged you to deliver it?”

“The duke himself.”

“The duke! and where, pray? for he is not at Paris either!”

“I know that, as I met him on the road to Blois.”

“On the road to Blois?” said the porter, a little more attentive.

“Yes, and he there charged me with a message for Madame de Montpensier.”

“A message?”

“A letter.”—­“Where is it?”

“Here,” said Ernanton, striking his doublet.

“Will you let me see it?”

“Willingly.”  And Ernanton drew out the letter.

“What singular ink!” said the man.

“It is blood,” said Ernanton, calmly.

The porter grew pale at these words, and at the idea that this blood belonged to M. de Mayenne.  At this time, when there was great dearth of ink and abundance of blood spilled, it was not uncommon for lovers to write to their mistresses, or absent relations to their families, in this liquid.

“Monsieur,” said the servant, “I do not know if you will find Madame de Montpensier in Paris or its environs; but go to a house in the Faubourg St. Antoine, called Bel-Esbat, which belongs to the duchesse; it is the first on the left hand going to Vincennes, after the convent of the Jacobins.  You will be sure to find some one there in the service of the duchesse sufficiently in her confidence to be able to tell you where Madame la Duchesse is just now.”